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BOOKS  BY  RENE  BAZIN 

Published  by    CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

Davidee  Birot net  $1.25 

The  Barrier net  Sl.OO 

(La  Barriere) 

"This,  My  Son" net  $1.25 

(Les  Noellets) 

The  Nun tiet  $1.00 

(L'Isolee) 

The  Coming  Harvest net  ^1.25 

(Le  Ble  qui  Leve) 

Redemption  .      .^ net  $1.25 

(De  toute  son  Ame) 


DAVIDEE   BIROT 


DAVIDKE  BIROT 

BY 
RENE    BAZIN 

AUTHOR  OF  "the  NUN,"  "THE  COMING  HARVEST,"  "THE  BARRIER,"  ETC. 

TRANSLATED  BY 
MARY  D.  FROST 

NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1912 

Copyright,  191 2,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  June,  191 2 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    Ardesie     3 

11.    The  Birot  Family        32 

III.    The  House  on  the  Plains     65 

rv.    "Flower  o'  the  Broom"       loi 

V.    Anna's  Funeral  137 

VI.    A  Talk  with  Phrosine  152 

VII.    A  Clandestine  Departure 161 

VIII.    Lying  in  Wait 171 

IX.    Troubled  Souls  192 

X.    Maieul's  Song 203 

XL    The  Inspector's  Visit 232 

XII.  "Blandes  of  the  Green  Shutters"        ...  255 

XIII.    The  Meeting 279 

XIV.    The  Return  to  Ardesie        305 

XV.    The  Permission 319 


DAVIDfiE  BIROT 


DAVIDEE    BIROT. 


CHAPTER  I. 


ARDESIE. 

Maieul  Jacquet,  commonly  known  among  his 
comrades  in  tiie  quarry  as  Maieul  Rit-Dur  or 
Sobersides  because  he  laughed  so  seldom,  had  left 
off  work  earlier  than  usual  that  afternoon,  and 
having  gone  behind  his  wind-break,  where  he  re- 
moved his  sabots,  unwound  the  strips  of  cloth 
which  served  him  as  leggings,  and  hung  them  care- 
fully on  a  cross-beam,  he  stood  for  a  few  moments 
bare-headed,  gazing  through  a  triangular  opening  in 
this  wattled  screen,  far  into  the  distance,  doubtless 
with  some  one  in  his  thoughts  who  Hved  over 
yonder  toward  the  west. 

"Are  you  going  already?"  asked  one  of  the 
men  who  was  at  work  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
hut.  "Is  it  the  stones  that  bother  you?  It's 
the  same  way  with  me.  For  these  three  months 
I've  had  naught  but  waste  and  rubble." 

"Maybe,"  replied  Rit-Dur  laconically. 

"Or  perhaps  you  are  going  on  business  of  your 
own?  You've  some  private  reason  for  quitting 
work  before  four  o'clock?" 

3 


4  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

Rit-Dur  made  no  answer,  but  stooping  once 
more  under  the  screen  picked  up  an  empty  soup- 
can,  a  pewter  spoon,  and  half  a  loaf  of  bread. 
Then,  having  spread  a  checked  handkerchief  on  the 
ground,  he  carefully  tied  up  in  it  these  remnants 
of  his  noon-dinner.  Meanwhile  a  third  workman, 
higher  up  in  the  quarr}^,  made  answer  for  him. 

"  WTiy  do  you  ask  him?  He's  a  chap  who  if  he 
has  any  secrets  won't  tell  them,  even  when  he's 
drunk,  which  he  never  is. " 

"He  is  a  lucky  one, "  remarked  the  first  speaker. 

"That  he  is  for  sure!" 

The  sound  of  their  voices  ceased  and  nothing 
could  be  heard  save  the  cUck  of  broken  slate  from 
all  over  the  quarry,  rising  now  in  sonorous  musi- 
cal waves  as  the  great  blocks  were  struck  by  picks 
of  steel,  then  in  deeper  notes,  from  the  blows  of 
the  heavy  mallets  and  the  grinding  of  scales  of 
slate  cloven  by  balanced  knives  which  rose  and 
fell  in  measured  beat.  If  the  three  hundred  men 
at  work  had  been  smashing  glass  with  hammers 
for  their  pastime,  they  would  have  made  much 
the  same  sort  of  music.  Along  the  roads  outside 
the  quarry,  which  were  deep  with  a  bluish  clay, 
tip-carts  went  by  driven  by  children  and  laden 
with  immense  blocks  of  slate  which  clanged  loudly 
at  eveiy  jolt.  The  urchins,  ha\ing  discharged 
their  loads,  stood  up  in  their  rimless  chariots  and 
lashed  their  horses  into  a  trot,  with  a  mighty  shak- 
ing up  of  carts,  dust,  and  children,  while  the  heavy 
rumbhng  of  wheels  shook  the  ground  and  mingled 
with  the  cascade  of  lighter  notes  from  the  crash- 
ing and  falling  slates. 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  5 

Rit-Dur's  wind-break  was  larger  and  newer 
than  the  others  and  consisted  of  three  fine  pah- 
sades,  one  at  the  back,  the  two  others  meeting  in 
the  form  of  a  forage-cap.  It  had  been  fashioned 
by  its  owner  out  of  gorse  and  heather,  closely 
bound  between  wooden  laths,  and  held  together 
by  branches  of  buckthorn,  that  buckthorn  whose 
shiny  black  bark  drives  the  young  bucks  mad 
when  they  nibble  it  in  the  spring. 

To  the  right  of  the  entrance  lay  piles  of  finished 
slates,  large  and  small,  from  the  "poil-roux"  to 
the  "grande-anglaise"  waiting  to  be  counted  and 
distributed  as  merchandise. 

The  morning  had  been  lowering,  as  so  often 
happens  in  March,  and  the  afternoon  continued 
damp  and  showery,  so  that  the  smallest  splinters 
of  the  slate  that  strewed  the  ground  held  a  rain- 
drop on  their  sharp  edges.  The  gray  clouds  had 
never  ceased  rolling  in  from  the  west  in  an  un- 
broken mass,  without  a  rift  through  which  blue 
sky  could  peer.  But  all  at  once  this  canopy  of 
cloud  parted,  revealing,  on  the  western  horizon, 
a  belt  of  clear-washed  green,  and  a  palHd  light, 
against  which  stood  out  less  dimly  the  roofs  of 
far-off  hamlets,  the  billowy  momids  of  the  slate 
quarries,  an  occasional  factory  chimney,  and  the 
tall  outline  of  the  well  of  La  Fresnais  looming  like 
a  windmill  without  sails. 

Maieul  Jacquet  emerged  from  his  shelter,  push- 
'  ing  his  bicycle  before  him  and  carrying  his  hand- 
kerchief bundle  slung  across  his  shoulder. 

"Good-night  to  you  all,"  he  cried. 

"Good-night!" 


6  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

He  was  no  ordinaiy  youth,  this  Rit-Dur.  An 
excellent  workman,  he  had  been  doing  a  man's  job 
since  his  eighteenth  year,  and  was  what  is  called 
a  four-load  slate-cutter— that  is,  one  whose  supply 
of  blocks  to  be  cut  is  renewed  at  each  distribution. 
But  it  was  m9re  especially  in  his  independence  of 
character  and  his  love  of  solitude  that  he  differed 
from  his  comrades.  He  had  come  originally  from 
one  of  the  small  islands  lying  between  two  branches 
of  the  Loire  at  Savennieres,  and  even  when  he 
arrived  at  the  quarry  he  was  already  taller  and 
dreamier  than  the  other  lads,  with  something  in 
his  face  and  manner  which  attracted  every  one. 
If  he  was  no  talker,  he  was  a  bit  of  a  musician  and 
poet  though  he  never  wrote  songs  for  the  village 
revels.  But  the  stone-cutters  behind  their  wind- 
breaks could  often  be  heard  singing  ditties  which 
were  said  to  be  his,  and  sometimes  at  night  there 
came  across  the  heather  from  the  slopes  of  La 
Gravelle  the  sound  of  airs  played  upon  a  rustic 
flute  which  brought  tears  to  the  eyes.  No  one 
ever  saw  the  player,  but  the  neighbours  said  to  each 
other,  "That  is  Maieul  having  one  of  his  nights ! " 

He  walked  for  a  few  yards  over  the  crackling 
slates,  then  mounted  his  machine,  and,  without 
haste,  took  the  road  that  led  to  Ardesie,  the  little 
neighbouring  commune  where  he  Hved.  Every 
morning  and  evening  he  followed  this  road  almost 
as  far  as  the  village,  but  not  quite,  for,  to  reach 
his  house,  he  was  obliged  to  make  a  slight  detour. 
La  Gravelle  was  situated — and  very  wisely  too — 
at  some  distance  from  the  high-road.  If  Maieul 
was  in  many  ways  unHke  those  about  him,  the 


DAVIDfiE    BIROT  7 

same  may  be  said  of  his  house,  which  stood,  old, 
high-perched,  and  isolated,  amidst  the  mounds 
and  hollows  of  ancient  slate-quarries,  abandoned 
a  hundred  years  ago. 

What  a  droll  idea  it  was  of  his,  every  one  said, 
to  go  and  settle  himself  so  far  from  the  inn  and  the 
neighbours  who  always  have  at  least  some  news  to 
tell,  a  newspaper  to  lend,  or  a  joke  to  repeat! 

He  was  in  no  hurry  now,  and  being  a  muscular 
youth  he  could  mount  an  occasional  steep  rise 
without  apparent  effort.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had 
reached  the  little  square  of  Ardesie,  in  which  there 
was  not  a  single  house  of  the  good  old  kind,  with 
fine  steep  roofs,  a  turret  or  a  mullioned  window; 
nothing  but  a  new  grocery,  a  tobacconist's  shop, 
two  tumble-down  cottages  newly  painted  and 
whitewashed,  and  an  immense  shed,  the  disused 
storehouse  of  a  slate-quarry,  whose  shattered  roofs 
let  in  the  sun  and  rain  and  stars. 

No  one  was  crossing  the  square  as  he  entered, 
but  as  he  turned  into  the  street  leading  from  it,  a 
troop  of  romping  girls  rushed  out  of  the  village 
school,  laughing  and  shouting  and  flourishing  their 
arms  about.  Two  of  them,  in  their  rush,  colKded 
with  the  bicycle  and  would  have  thrown  the  rider 
off  if  he  had  not  whirled  his  machine  round  and 
lighted  on  one  foot.  Thereupon  the  whole  crew 
of  twenty  little  girls  set  up  a  shout  of  joy  and 
triumph  at  having  nearly  upset  the  tall  young 
quarryman,  and  without  damage  to  life  or  limb. 

"Oh,  Monsieur  Maieul  has  fallen!"  they  cried; 
"he  has  fallen  off  his  wheel!    It  is  a  hurdle  race!" 

A  clear  firm  voice  arrested  the  tumult. 


8  davidEe  birot 

"Ernestine,"  it  said,  "you  will  be  kept  after 
school  to-morrow  evening. " 

The  noise  ceased  at  once  as  the  children  formed 
into  two  groups  and  disappeared  rapidly  in  oppo- 
site directions. 

"Monsieur  Maieul,  I  am  very  much  annoyed." 

"I  am  not  at  all.    There's  no  harm  done." 

He  said  no  more,  but  shrugged  his  shoulders 
slightly  in  the  direction  of  the  retreating  children. 
The  school-mistress  had  been  watching  the  de- 
parture of  her  pupils  from  the  threshold  of  a  door- 
way whose  tufa  side-posts  were  roughcast  with 
brown  and  purple-shot  clay  up  to  the  height  of 
a  man's  head — that  is  to  say,  a  little  higher  than 
the  head  of  Mile.  Davidee  Birot.  She  was  young, 
and  very  erect,  and  her  eyes,  weary  with  writing 
and  reading,  were  gazing  with  pleasure  along  the 
road,  at  the  rift  of  light  on  the  horizon,  at  the 
melancholy  landscape,  and  at  the  figure  of  the 
3^oung  quarryman  dismounted  there  in  the  middle 
of  the  highway. 

Between  her  black  skirts  and  the  sides  of  the 
door-way  one  caught  glimpses  of  the  court-yard  of 
the  school,  its  sandy  floor  flecked  with  puddles, 
its  leafless  pear-trees,  and  the  arched  trellis  of  an 
arbour. 

WTien  Maieul  had  followed  the  children  with 
his  eyes  a  moment,  he  seized  the  handles  of  his 
wheel,  replaced  his  bundle  with  a  toss  over  his 
shoulder,  and  was  about  to  move  on  when  the 
thought  seemed  to  strike  him  that  it  would  be 
unci\dl  to  go  without  a  word  to  the  young  school- 
mistress.   As  he  turned  toward  her,  an  expres- 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  9 

sion  of  astonishment  crossed  his  face  as  he  ex- 
claimed : 

"What  is  that  I  see.  Mademoiselle,  alongside 
of  you?    A  spade?" 

"Certainly,  Monsieur  Maieul." 

"But  it  is  as  big  as  mine!" 

"Is  it?  I  found  it  here  at  the  school;  we  have 
no  other. " 

"You  are  not  going  to  use  it,  surely?" 

"Pardon  me,  I  am  going  to  use  it,  and  at  once. " 
She  laughed  as  she  spoke,  not  with  the  wide- 
mouthed  ringing  peal  of  the  countrywoman,  but 
discreetly  and  with  reserve,  as  if  her  mind  were 
just  hovering  on  her  Hps.  There  was  no  mockery 
in  her  laugh.  She  knew  Maieul  by  sight,  and  said 
to  herself:  "This  good  fellow  evidently  regards 
me  as  a  sort  of  princess!" 

"You  imagine  then  that  we  have  a  gardener, 
Monsieur  Maieul?  No,  the  commune  has  not 
offered  us  one.  The  Mayor  of  Ardesie  would  be 
highly  astonished  if  I  asked  him  for  such  a  thing. 
We  hoe  our  own  beds  and  sow  our  own  carrots, 
onions,  parsley,  and  little  radishes.  It  certainly 
is  not  expert  labour,  but  here  is  spring  coming  upon 
us,  and  if  we  wish  to  vary  our  fare  a  little,  we  must 
set  to  work.  And,  as  you  see,  I  am  about  to  do 
so!" 

Her  jesting  tone,  which  implied  more  than  she 
uttered,  at  once  intimidated  and  attracted  the 
young  slate-cutter.  Mile.  David^e  had  already 
turned  away,  crossed  the  court,  and  opened  the 
wicket  gate  which  led  through  a  low  wall  into  the 
kitchen-garden.    She  entered,  stepped  across  a 


10  davidEe  birot 

border  sown  with  corn  salad,  and  took  up  her  po- 
sition firmly  at  the  end  of  the  adjoining  bed.  Was 
she  actually  going  to  use  those  hands — which 
seemed  fit  only  for  handling  a  pen,  so  white  and 
slender  were  they  and  no  bigger  than  a  fennel 
apple — to  dig  great  shovelfuls  of  earth  and  turn 
them  over  and  over,  and  keep  on  at  this  work  until 
dusk?  She  had  already  raised  her  left  arm  and 
planted  her  foot  on  the  spade,  when  Maieul 
grasped  the  handle  and  with  a  vigorous  movement 
drew  it  away  from  her. 

"There!  there!  let  me  have  that  spade,"  he 
cried;  "it  is  much  more  used  to  me  than  to  you. 
I  will  dig  your  garden  for  you!" 

"You!    Not  really?" 

"And  take  much  less  time  about  it  too — and 
maybe  give  pleasure  also  to — but  enough  said! 
I  must  get  to  work  at  once." 

Mile.  Davidee  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  salad  bed,  half  inclined  to  laugh  and  half 
touched  by  this  attention,  and  not  at  all  sure  which 
was  the  more  appropriate  feeling.  As  for  Maieul, 
he  had  already  pulled  off  his  vest,  thrown  it  over 
a  small  pear-tree,  and  set  to  work  digging  the  rich 
earth  which,  at  touch  of  the  hoe,  crumbled  away 
in  soft  heaps,  intermixed  with  straw  and  ground- 
sel. 

"Very  well,  then,  since  you  really  mean  it, 
Monsieur  Maieul;  I  thank  you  heartil3^  I  have 
in  fact  some  papers  to  correct  and  you  are  doing 
me  a  great  kindness." 

But  to  this  he  made  no  reply,  not  being  given 
to  expending  his  energy  in  words.     Alread}',  with 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  11 

half-a-dozen  strokes  of  the  spade,  he  had  dug  up  a 
strip  of  earth  a  foot  wide  and  was  beginning  on  a 
second  one. 

The  young  girl  walked  away  along  the  garden 
path  which  was  imprinted  with  the  marks  of  tiny 
heels,  her  own  and  those  of  Mile.  Renee  Des- 
forges  the  head-mistress.  She  mounted  the  three 
steps  of  the  porch  at  the  end  of  the  playground 
and  in  full  sight  of  the  garden,  unconsciously  hold- 
ing herself  veiy  erect  without  any  swaying  of  her 
light  figure.  As  she  opened  the  door  she  turned 
back  to  gaze  up  at  the  sky,  which  was  again  cov- 
ered with  dark  clouds,  the  rift  in  the  west  having 
closed  in. 

"^Vhat  a  dismal  light,  Mademoiselle!"  she  ex- 
claimed to  some  one  within.  "  It  gives  me  a  very 
despondent  feehng." 

"  Don't  be  over-sensitive,  my  child,  and  beware 
of  humbug!    I  heard  you  joking  a  moment  ago. " 

"Yes,  with  Maieul  Jacquet  who  insisted  on  hoe- 
ing our  garden  for  us.  It  was  droll  of  him,  was 
it  not?" 

"Perhaps  so." 

"WTiy  do  you  say  that?" 

"He  has  reasons  of  his  own,  no  doubt." 

"All  the  same  it  strikes  me  as  rather  odd, 
though  I  have  no  wish  to  look  deepty  into  his 
motives.  But,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  quite  true  that 
owing  to  all  these  dark  clouds,  this  fog  and  rain, 
I  am  feeling  a  Httle " 

"A  little  what?" 

"  Depressed?— No,  hardly  that.  Sad?— No,  not 
actually  sad,  but  a  little  inclined  to  sadness." 


12  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

"You  must  tell  the  Inspector  so  the  next  time 
he  comes  to  Ardesie.  He  will  advise  you  to  get 
married,  or  perhaps  he  will  have  you  appointed 
to  some  place  on  the  Riviera — the  sky  there  is 
always  blue,  you  know!" 

Mile.  Renee  Desforges'  wide  Hps  curled  with  a 
slightly  disdainful  smile.  Then  of  a  sudden  she 
ceased  smiling,  the  bodice  on  which  she  was  work- 
ing fell  from  her  lap,  and  she  spoke  volubly  and 
passionately. 

"You  are  still  a  novice  in  spite  of  your  three 
years  and  a  half  of  teaching,  and  as  naive  as  a  new- 
comer after  your  six  months  in  Ardesie.  Posi- 
tively you  rouse  my  pity !  You  do  not  talk  about 
marriage,  but  you  encourage,  you  cultivate,  and 
cherish  your  emotions,  whether  over  a  sick  child 
or  a  dying  woman,  a  strike,  a  mewing  cat,  or  a 
small  bird  that  breaks  its  wing  against  a  telephone 
wire.  You  are  always  in  a  state  of  agitation  and 
suffering,  trying  to  solve  the  problem  of  evil,  while 
you  are  nothing  after  all  but  a  poor  little  assistant 
school-mistress  exiled  to  this  remote  hamlet  of 
Ardesie,  regarded  with  jealousy  by  the  cur6, 
scarcely  listened  to  by  the  inhabitants,  closely 
watched  by  the  school  board,  and  on  the  whole 
pretty  badly  off.  You  are  on  a  false  tack,  my  dear, 
believe  me!  Live  for  yourself,  do  all  that  is  re- 
quired to  get  on,  have  a  good  class-room  in  excel- 
lent order,  and  neat  papers;  the  rest  is  superfluous, 
and  nobody  will  thank  you  for  it.  Give  up  your 
zeal  for  helping  the  human  race.  Cultivate  a 
universal  scepticism  such  as  is  in  favour  with  the 
authorities.    Above  all,  indulge  in  no  dreams  of 


DAVIDEEBIROT  13 

conjugal  affection!  Any  other  kind  you  may 
dream  of,  if  it  is  not  against  your  piinciples.  But 
the  husband  of  a  village  school-mistress,  what  is 
he?  Three  times  out  of  four  he  is  a  man  who  hves 
upon  us,  upon  our  labour,  and  if  we  take  one  from 
among  the  instructors  we  renounce  all  hope  of  pro- 
motion, for  it  would  be  the  height  of  luck  to  find 
two  posts  vacant  at  the  same  time,  side  by  side. 
And  moreover,  my  child,  I  do  not  see  many  of  our 
masculine  colleagues  whom  /  would  consent  to 
marry.  No,  no,  my  dear,  we  must  love  our  pro- 
fession for  its  own  sake,  we  must  lay  our  hearts 
between  two  sheets  of  blotting-paper  so  that  they 
may  dry  thoroughly,  always  say  yes  to  the  school- 
committee,  and  attain  to  a  tidy  little  pension  at 
last  without  over-exerting  ourselves." 

"What  a  profession  of  faith!  And  what  ardour 
you  put  into  it.  Mademoiselle !  I  assure  you  that 
I  have  given  you  no  pretext  for  lecturing  me  on 
the  subject  of  a  possible  or  impossible  marriage. 
There  is  not  a  suitor  on  the  horizon,  I  swear  to 
you!  The  horizon  is  quite  misty;  I  have  just 
looked  out.  There  is  not  a  gleam  in  sight. "  She 
laughed  gently  as  she  spoke,  bending  her  slender 
neck  a  little.     Mile.  Renee  resumed: 

"However,  you  have  perhaps  a  right  not  to  be 
like  the  rest  of  us  school-ma'ams;  you  have  a  dowry 
and  a  rich  father,  you  are  a  sort  of  aristocrat. " 

She  rose  as  she  said  this,  carefully  folded  her 
work,  stuck  her  needle  in  it,  and  laid  it  on  the 
kitchen  table. 

"As  it  is  my  week  to  keep  house,  I  must  go  and 
make  the  soup.    Come  and  correct  your  papers 


14  davidEebirot 

beside  me,  will  you?  And  perhaps  you  will  cor- 
rect some  of  mine  at  the  same  time. " 

"Oh,  yes,  most  willingly." 

Mile.  Davidee  crossed  the  little  corridor  at  one 
end  of  which  was  the  stairway  leading  to  their  bed- 
chambers, and  entered  the  scantily  furnished,  tile- 
floored  room  which  the  yomig  teachers  called  their 
parlour.  Taking  up  a  pile  of  exercise-books  she 
carried  them  back  to  the  little  kitchen,  where  she 
seated  herself  at  the  table  and,  turning  her  eager 
yomig  face  toward  the  window,  began  to  read. 
"Middle  class," — this  was  Mile.  Desforges'  class 
— "Madeleine  Bunat's  cop5^book,  Friday,  March 
26.  Writing:  Imitate  good  examples."  With 
one  stroke  of  her  pencil  Mile.  Davidee  marked  the 
page  "fairly  good."  "French  composition:  Describe 
how  you  intend  to  spend  your  Easter  vacation  in 
useful  ways  while  resting  from  your  studies. " 

"Upon  my  word,  this  of  Madeleine's  is  not  bad. 
Are  you  hstening,  Mademoiselle  Renee?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  am  hstening." 

The  head-mistress  was  bending  over  the  fire- 
place, hanging  the  kettle  on  the  crane.  She  raked 
up  the  dead  ashes,  threw  on  a  few  handfuls  of  dry 
thorns,  took  a  newspaper  which  she  folded  in  a 
narrow  strip  so  that  it  should  not  burn  too  fast, 
lighted  it,  and  set  fire  to  the  thorns  which  crackled 
and  threw  out  a  white  blaze.  This  done  she  put 
her  foot  on  the  paper  to  extinguish  the  flame  and 
carefully  laid  the  rest  of  it  aside  for  next  day,  a 
housekeeper's  movement  and  a  frank  avowal  of 
poverty.  All  the  women  in  Ardesie  did  this. 
Davidee  looked  on  curiously. 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  15 

"Well,  read  this  masterpiece,  then!"  said  Mile. 
Renee. 

"Oh,  yes.  Here  it  is:  'I  intend  to  spend  my 
holidays  usefully,  for  I  am  too  old  now  to  play  all 
the  time.  The  first  thing  in  the  morning,  I  will 
help  about  the  housework,  I  will  run  errands,  and 
peel  the  vegetables.  Then  I  will  spend  my  after- 
noon in  manual  work,  embroidery,  sewing,  and  the 
like.  But  I  shall  also  have  my  hours  of  leisure. 
When  I  am  alone,  I  will  employ  them  in  reading 
and  drawing,  and  quite  often  I  will  ask  my  little 
friends  to  play  with  me.  I  shall  thus  have  spent 
my  vacation  usefully  and  at  the  same  time  pleas- 
antly.'" 

"  You  are  right.  That  is  very  good ! "  said  Mile. 
Renee  as  she  rose  from  her  knees  with  her  face 
scarlet  and  her  eyes  glowing  from  the  flames.  "I 
have  always  had  great  confidence  in  Madeleine 
Bunat." 

Mile.  Davidee,  as  often  happened,  shook  her 
head,  and  proceeded  to  deny  what  she  had  just 
asserted.  Speech  was  prompt  with  her,  judg- 
ment followed  later,  and  often  contradicted  her 
first  words. 

"All  the  same,  do  you  not  think  Madeleine 
Bunat's  ideal  of  a  vacation  rather  a  tame  one?" 

"What  would  you  ask  better?" 

"I  hardly  know,  but  as  I  reread  the  compo- 
sition I  thought  to  myself:  A  formula,  just  a 
formula  she  has  learnt  by  heart,  and  which  will 
not  protect  the  child.    Let  us  suppose  that " 

"Well,  prater,  I  will  suppose  that  you  are  not 
looking  after  your  gardener.    Is  he  still  there?  " 


16  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

Davidee  Birot,  light,  swift,  agile,  rose  from  the 
table,  ghded  past  Mile.  Renee,  and  pressed  her 
face  against  the  window-pane. 

"  Yes,  he  is  still  there.  He  looks  terribly  heated. 
The  bed  is  almost  dug.  If  you  could  only  see 
him!  If  we  were  hiring  him  at  exorbitant  wages 
he  could  not  work  with  greater  ardour.  There 
now!  What  a  shovelful,  my  poor  Maieul  Rit- 
Dur!  I  really  believe  the  darkness  has  made  him 
taller.  He  looks  like  a  giant  toiling  away  among 
our  pear-trees." 

The  young  girl  turned  from  the  window  and 
came  back  to  her  papers,  saying  as  she  bent  her 
head  over  them,  "It  is  very  kind  of  this  young 
man  to  be  doing  what  he  is!" 

"Perhaps  I  should  think  so  too  if  he  were  doing 
it  for  me. " 

"Oh,  nonsense! — Poor  fellow!" 

She  said  no  more.  The  two  school-mistresses 
of  Ardesie  exchanged  a  glance.  Their  eyes  ques- 
tioned each  other  mutely.  "  What  are  you  really 
thinking?"  They  were  both  young — though  with 
some  years  between  them — and  their  youth  gave 
a  strange  depth  to  the  emotion  which  the  half- 
implied  word  of  love  had  awakened  in  them. 
Their  long  years  of  hard  study  were  there,  ready 
to  speak  and  say:  "Shall  we  have  our  reward? 
Will  there  ever  be  any  truce  to  this  labour?" 

Such  striving  and  effort !  Such  solitude !  Such 
weariness  over  the  daily  monotony!  No  reward 
but  the  passing  affection  of  a  few  children  and  the 
ingratitude  of  all  the  rest!  The  present  moment 
stirred  them  both  and  awoke  their  self-pity.    The 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  17 

same  thought  murmured  vaguely  in  the  soul  of 
each :  "  Look  at  this  kitchen,  this  dull  court-yard, 
this  pile  of  papers,  this  pot  boiling  on  the  hearth, 
this  whole  humble  life!  We  have  barely  courage 
to  go  on  Hving  because  it  is  for  ourselves  alone; 
but  if  it  were  for  him!  for  him  the  unknown,  the 
impossible,  perhaps!"  The  dream  was  the  same 
in  the  eyes  of  Mile.  Davidee  and  of  Mile.  Renee. 
But  the  latter  no  longer  beUeved  in  the  words  that 
came  in  the  silence  with  their  subtle  music  and 
tempting  visions.  She  had  known  disappoint- 
ment; she  was  growing  old.  Her  beautiful  fair 
hair  was  beginning  to  lose  its  golden  lights  and 
reflections.  The  rosy  tints  in  her  cheeks  were 
turning  too  fixed  a  red. 

They  still  looked  into  each  other's  eyes;  the 
smile  tinged  with  irony  on  Mile.  Renee's  lips  never 
changed.  The  younger  girl,  the  Httle  one  who 
had  been  teaching  for  four  years,  had  in  one  mo- 
ment lived  through  a  happy  future  and  seen  her 
spring-time  fade;  she  grew  sad  the  first,  with  a 
passing  impulse  of  gratitude  for  the  sympathy 
which  she  thought  Mile.  Renee  expressed  for  her. 
Then  she  went  back  to  her  task  of  correcting 
papers.  The  two  young  teachers  had  not  ex- 
changed a  word.  Mile.  Renee  now  took  from  the 
sideboard  a  tin  dish  containing  cold  meat  sliced 
in  gravy,  and  set  it  on  the  fire,  while  Mile.  Davidee 
went  on  reading: 

"Elementary  course.  Writing:  'Temperance 
preserves  the  health. '  She  is  incredibly  lazy,  that 
little  Philomene  Letourneur!  If  you  could  see  her 
page  of  writing !    I  shall  give  her  a  bad  mark. " 


18  davidEe  birot 

"Then  her  father  will  beat  her!" 

"No,  he  drinks;  nothing  matters  to  him.  The 
mother  is  a  nice  woman,  however." 

Mile.  Davidee  took  up  her  pen  again,  erased  the 
bad  mark  and  substituted :    "  Carelessly  done. " 

"Elementary  course.  *  Temperance  preserves 
the  health!'  This  time  we  have  httle  Anna  Le 
Floch." 

"The  Bretonne?  We  have  too  many  children 
from  Brittany  in  school  now.  They  come  in 
troops  from  Poullaouen  and  Huelgoat  and  Redon. " 

"This  is  very  badly  wiitten,  all  ups  and  downs. 
Temperance — preserves — health.  Besides,  the  poor 
little  thing  has  no  health,  although  she  observes 
temperance  strictly  enough!  I  am  always  afraid 
of  her  dying  on  our  hands.  She  would  be  the  first 
of  my  pupils  who  has  ever  died.  I  am  going  to 
put  'Fairly  well'  for  her  mark;  it  will  save  a  few 
tears.  '^ 

She  continued  to  skim  the  copybooks,  her  head 
bent  lower  over  the  pages  as  the  light  faded.  Her 
serious  mouth  with  the  red  lips,  which  enunciated 
so  clearly,  murmured  each  name  in  turn:  Julie 
Sauvage,  Corentine  Le  Derf,  Jeannie  Fete-Dieu. 
From  time  to  time  she  addressed  a  remark  to  Mile. 
Renee  who  replied  as  she  moved  about  the  kitchen. 

When  she  had  finished  correcting  her  papers  and 
laid  them  in  a  neat  pile.  Mile.  Davidee  rose  and 
went  to  the  door  which  led  into  the  court-yard, 
opened  it  cautiously,  took  a  step  or  two  on  the 
sand  outside,  bending  her  head  to  listen,  then 
re-entered  the  room. 

"He  is  gone,"  she  said. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  19 

"What!  without  takmg  leave  of  us?"  returned 
Mile.  Renee.  "What  manners  these  people  have! 
They  are  perfect  boors. " 

"  But  he  has  dug  our  garden-bed, "  said  Da\'idee, 
"and  after  all — "  She  did  not  pursue  her 
thought,  but  added  only: 

"We  must  light  our  lamp;  the  night  is  coming 
on, "  and,  so  saying,  she  took  down  from  the  buffet 
shelf  a  glass  lamp  whose  opaque  shade  was  taste- 
lessly decorated  with  a  design  of  playing-cards  on 
a  greenish  ground.  She  lighted  it  with  the  care 
she  gave  to  whatever  she  did  and  began  to  set  the 
table. 

The  two  young  ted!chers  always  spread  a  cloth 
for  their  morning  and  evening  meal;  it  was  of 
coarse  linen,  but  white  and  fresh,  and  served  to 
distinguish  their  simple  meal  from  those  of  the 
peasants  around  them.  Mile.  Davidee  spread  it, 
smoothing  the  folds  with  her  hands,  while  Mile. 
Renee  took  the  soup  kettle  from  the  hob  and 
poured  its  contents  into  a  tureen,  which  stood  on 
the  hearth  half-filled  with  morsels  of  bread.  Then 
without  turning  her  head  she  remarked: 

"It  is  a  pity  Maieul  Jacquet  leads  such  a  sad 
life,  for  he  is  not  a  bad  man  after  all. " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  sad  life?" 

"How  simple-minded  you  are!" 

"But  what  is  it  you  reproach  him  with?" 

Mile.  Davidee  bending  forward  across  the  table, 
her  hands  still  smoothing  the  cloth,  was  vexed 
to  feel  her  blood  mounting  suddenly  in  such  an 
absurd  way  to  her  lips  and  cheeks  and  brow. 

"  Do  you  never  hear  any  gossip  then?  "  the  other 


20  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

rejoined.  "I  knew  it  six  weeks  after  my  arrival 
in  Ardesie.  Maieul  Jacquet,  whom  they  call  Rit- 
Dm-,  is  Phrosine's  lover." 

"What!  the  woman  who  sweeps  om'  class- 
rooms? " 

"Certainly." 

"And  whom  I  shall  see  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  to-morrow,  and  all  the  following  days; 
Anna  Le  Floch's  mother." 

"Oh,  how  you  have  lowered  her  in  my  eyes!  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  look  at  her  again  without 
thinking  of  this. " 

"Oh,  you  will  grow  indulgent  in  time." 

"I  am  so  now.  I  make  no  open  reproaches.  I 
pass  as  unconsciously  as  I  can  in  the  midst  of  their 
vices.  But  I  would  like  to  rest  my  eyes  some- 
where. And  as  to  this  woman,  I  guessed  her  to 
be  unhappy,  I  saw  that  at  times  she  looked  shy 
and  rebeUious  and  that  her  face  was  hard  and 
stem,  but  I  was  always  struck  by  a  sort  of  dignity 
about  her. " 

"Trust  to  that  if  you  choose,  my  dear!  She 
certainly  cannot  Hve  on  what  she  earns  from  us. " 

"I  never  could  have  beheved  it.  She  was  one 
of  the  last  among  the  younger  women  to  wear  the 
pretty  cap  of  Ponts-de-Ce  with  the  fluted  wdngs." 

"Do  you  think  those  caps  protect  a  girl?" 

"But  I  thought  she  had  such  a  steady  air,  the 
look  of  a  mother  who  misses  her  child.  I  have 
never  talked  with  her  except  to  say:  'Do  this  or 
do  that,  do  not  forget  to  put  the  broom  in  the 
closet,  good-by.'" 

"You  are  not  regretting  the  fact,  are  you?" 


DAVIDEEBIROT  21 

"But  how  many  fellow-beings  there  are  whose 
minds  never  touch  ours  except  in  trivial  words  like 
these,  and  their  equally  trivial  answers:  'Yes, 
Mademoiselle!  No,  Mademoiselle.  Good-by  till 
to-morrow!'" 

Mile.  Renee's  sonorous  laugh  broke  out  in  the 
peaceful  room,  disturbing  the  silence  which  en- 
wrapped the  house  and  swathed  the  court-yard 
outside,  the  garden  and  the  highway  in  a  shroud 
of  mist. 

"Eat  your  supper,  my  dear;  you  evidently  need 
fortifying.  You  can  philosophize  to-morrow.  Are 
there  many  philosophers  of  your  stamp  in  Cha- 
rente?  Ah,  I  confess  frankly  that  I  am  incapable 
of  following  you,  and  that  I  cannot  worry  as  you 
do  over  everybody's  troubles.  As  long  as  I  con- 
duct my  classes  properly,  I  am  content  to  let  hu- 
manity alone.  Will  you  have  another  spoonful 
of  soup?" 

"No,  thanks;  I  am  not  hungry." 

"That  is  the  way  things  go!  If  you  had  hoed 
the  garden-bed  yourself  you  would  be  eating  your 
supper  with  the  appetite  of  a  young  wolf  cub." 

Sitting  opposite  each  other  the  two  young 
teachers  now  resumed  their  usual  evening  talk 
on  the  uninteresting  but  necessary  subjects  of  the 
next  day's  work,  the  order  of  studies,  the  themes 
to  be  given  out.  Mile.  Birot,  while  doing  her 
best  not  to  appear  absent-minded,  was  evidently 
thinking  of  other  things:  a  deep  undercurrent  of 
thoughts  and  emotions  was  flov/ing  beneath  the 
surface  attention  she  gave  and  the  partly  veiled 
glance  of  her  dark  eyes.    At  this  moment  she,  too, 


22  DAVIDEEBIROT 

was  of  those  who  give  nothing  of  their  real  mind 
and  heart  to  their  neighbour;  she  merely  answered 
"Yes,  no,  precisely/'  with  a  face  void  of  thought, 
like  so  many  faces  which  reveal  nothing  but 
the  material  life  that  animates  them,  the  blood 
flowing  through  their  veins.  And  yet  hers  was 
a  face  which,  although  without  regular  beauty, 
could  not  fail  to  interest,  such  was  the  charm  of 
its  soft  pallor  lighted  up  by  her  large  dark  eyes 
and  the  deep  red  of  her  lips. 

The  plump,  blonde  Mile.  Renee  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  have  her  companion  in  a  more  commu- 
nicative mood.  Had  she  ever  known  the  eager 
concern  in  eveiything  about  her  which  agitated 
Davidee?  If  so,  she  had  speedily  conquered  it. 
This  woman  of  thirty-two  lived  her  life  wholly  free 
from  that  cold  shivering  breath  which  blows  in 
upon  us  from  the  open  sea.  She  had  no  taste  for 
melancholy  and  fought  its  attacks,  which  grew 
constantly  rarer,  by  striving  to  drown  reflection, 
to  avoid  looking  forward  or  facing  any  problems 
which  she  had  decided  to  be  insoluble.  There 
was  about  her  a  prompt  and  easy  gayety  which 
was  not  due  to  courage,  though  it  produced  that 
illusion,  but  was  rather  the  means  of  escape  from 
thoughts  of  sorrow,  moral  perplexity,  and  death. 

"She  is  always  in  a  good  humour,"  said  the 
parents  after  a  visit  to  the  head-mistress,  but  they 
left  her  without  a  spark  of  feeling  or  a  glow  of 
comfort,  with  the  memoiy  merely  of  precise  colour- 
less words,  relieved  by  little  familiarities  of  man- 
ner and  studied  pleasantries.  No  one  could  cite 
more  than  three  or  four  instances  in  which  Mile. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  23 

Renee  had  shown  herself  violently  aggressive  or 
harshly  vindictive.  The  cure  of  Ardesie  was  one 
of  its  inhabitants  whom  she  cordially  hated, 
though  she  scarcely  knew  him.  Her  other  ene- 
mies were  both  women,  and  young,  of  whom  one 
had  complained  of  the  head-teacher  for  tearing 
up  a  pupil's  catechism  in  the  class-room,  while  the 
other  had  ventured  to  say  of  her,  "That  blonde 
is  growing  stout  and  red." 

To  distract  her  assistant's  mind,  she  began 
describing  the  last  teacher's  reunion  she  had  at- 
tended in  the  neighbouring  town.  She  dwelt  upon 
the  toilettes — "Oh,  very  pretentious  in  a  small 
way!" — related  some  local  gossip,  and  commented 
on  the  latest  school  appointments,  of  which  she 
approved  only  those  which  did  not  arouse  her 
envy,  and  finally  she  wound  up  by  exclaiming: 

"Come,  child,  let  us  go  for  a  walk.  The 
weather  is  bad,  to  be  sure,  but  it  will  make  our 
blood  tingle  and  change  the  current  of  our 
thoughts.  You  evidently  need  distraction.  Oh, 
how  young  you  are!" 

The  girls  rapidly  washed  the  plates  and  soup 
tureen,  performing  this  task  with  nervous  haste, 
the  principal  especially,  who  had  long  aspired  to 
a  better-paid  post,  where  she  could  hire  a  little 
maid  for  these  homely  offices. 

They  were  soon  out-of-doors.  "How  soft  the 
air  is!"  exclaimed  Mile.  Renee. 

They  had  put  on  sabots  over  their  shoes,  which 
clicked  at  every  step  and  raised  them  above  the 
sticky  mud  of  the  road.  After  leaving  the  school 
behind  they  passed  a  larger  whitewashed  build- 


24  DAVIDIEE   BIROT 

ing,  then  the  roofs  grew  lower  and  the  one-storied 
houses  whose  age  was  past  reckoning,  stretched 
out  to  the  cross-roads  and  beyond,  the  dim  even- 
ing hght  showing  their  long  lines  of  roof  thatched 
with  dusty  moss  and  looking  as  if  patched  with 
bits  of  gray  cloth  from  the  cast-off  garments  of  their 
peasant  dwellers.  They  all  lay  wrapped  in  such 
deep  slumber  that  the  village  seemed  dead.  The 
two  "demoiselles"  descended  toward  the  square, 
which  is  built  up  only  on  the  south  and  east.  The 
cafe  was  still  lighted  and  the  dull  glare  from  its 
windows  streamed  out  across  the  miry  road.  On 
the  east  was  a  tumble-down  wall  and  a  house 
before  which  stood  a  tree,  the  soHtary  tree  which 
vouchsafed  the  shade  of  its  quivering  leaves  to 
this  poor  toiling  hamlet.  On  the  north  there  was 
one  deserted  house,  whose  outside  stairway  served 
as  a  sleeping  place  for  tramps  and  homeless  dogs 
on  summer  nights.  Work  at  the  cross-roads  had 
ceased,  the  earth  no  longer  groaned  beneath  the 
heavy  slate-laden  carts,  and  only  these  two  girls 
seemed  to  be  abroad  to  hsten  to  the  wailing  of  the 
night  wind.  All  the  life  of  the  village  was  con- 
centrated in  the  two  streets  diverging  from  this 
open  space.  Streets  crowded  by  poor  hovels, 
workmen's  tenements,  and  drinking  places  whose 
patrons  were  no  longer  entering  them,  but  where  a 
few  obstinate  topers  still  lingered  over  their  cups. 
It  was  in  this  quarter  that  most  of  the  school- 
children Hved.  Mile.  Ren^e  and  Mile.  David^e 
stared  up  at  the  house  fronts,  with  their  dimly 
lighted  windows,  which  they  could  distinguish  by 
certain  vague  signs. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  25 

"I  must  go,  one  of  these  days,  to  call  on  Jeannie 
Fete-Dieu's  grandmother,"  said  Mile.  David^e. 
"The  child  tells  me  she  is  growing  worse." 

"Ah,  my  dear,  you  will  be  doing  a  kind  act.  I 
envy  you.  For  my  part  I  cannot  see  people  suf- 
fer.   It  is  too  much  for  me." 

The  younger  woman  felt  tempted  to  reply, 
"Then  do  not  look  at  me,"  but  she  kept  silence, 
for  in  truth  she  hardly  knew  why  such  bitter  sad- 
ness had  taken  hold  on  her  and  could  not  be 
shaken  off,  or  if  she  knew  she  could  as  yet  find  no 
words  to  express  it.  She  only  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause: 

"We  are  real  personages  here,  you  and  I,  are 
we  not?  At  all  events,  I  feel  the  need  of  saying 
so  to  myself." 

"Fine  personages  indeed!  I  with  my  hood  on 
my  head,  sabots  on  my  feet,  and  solitude  around 
me!  My  poor  Mademoiselle  Davidee,  when  you 
have  Hved  six  months  longer  here  you  will  find 
out  that  we  are  merely  victims,  sacrificed  if  not 
condemned!" 

A  discreet  and  musical  peal  of  laughter  rang 
out  on  the  astonished  night,  hke  the  note  of  a 
waking  bird.  The  cross-roads,  the  two  diverging 
streets  stretching  out  and  losing  themselves  in 
the  darkness,  all  were  a  desert.  But  humanity 
was  nevertheless  there,  innumerable,  borne  upon 
the  night  wind — ^that  wind  which  drove  the  noises 
of  the  town  before  it  and  scattered  them  over  the 
lonely  fields.  There  was  a  confused  murmur  in 
the  distance  whence  issued  from  time  to  time,  as 
bubbles  break  on  the  surface  of  a  wave,  now  a 


26  DAVIDSE   BIROT 

voice,  now  the  whistle  of  a  passing  locomotive, 
then  two  distinct  measures  of  a  waltz  played  by  a 
military  band  on  some  square  in  the  distant  town. 
A  bell  rang  in  muffled  tones,  then  came  the  blast 
of  a  siren  releasing  a  gang  of  men  from  their  work, 
or  again  the  whistle  of  an  exhaust  pump  in  the 
quarries  beyond  the  well  of  Champ-Robert.  Then 
all  these  sounds  mingled  and  lost  themselves  in 
one  vast  harmony,  and  this  song  of  hfe  was  made 
up  of  a  vast  interblending  of  toils  and  pleasures, 
sorrows  and  joys,  indistinguishable  one  from  the 
other.  Great  searchlights  kept  watch  through 
the  darkness  over  distant  quarries  and  formed 
islands  of  light  here  and  there,  a  soft  warmth 
exuded  from  the  enveloping  folds  of  mist  and 
dripped  from  stones  and  walls  and  bushes — one 
could  feel  the  breath  of  spring  which  had  not  yet 
fully  come  and  which  exhaled  itself  as  yet  only  in 
stray  perfumes  and  fugitive  sighs  borne  on  the 
soft  mild  air. 

"You  were  right,"  said  Mile.  Davidee;  "the 
night  is  sweet." 

"What  the  poets  would  call  a  voluptuous 
night, "  replied  Mile.  Renee,  and  as  she  spoke  she 
wound  her  arm  around  her  companion's  waist  and 
together  they  retraced  their  steps  toward  the 
deserted  house  at  the  head  of  the  square,  where 
another  lonely  road  led  away  through  pasture- 
lands  and  rough  fields  strewn  with  bluish  pebbles 
where  only  sparse  tufts  of  grass  and  moss  could 
grow.  The  girls  followed  it  slowly  and  a  little 
timidly,  scarcely  uttering  a  word ;  they  were  bound 
for  a  neighbouring  hamlet  where  stood  the  parish 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  27 

church  and  thence  homeward  by  another  road. 
Half-way  along  this  lonely  stretch,  they  both 
started  at  the  sound  of  some  nocturnal  bird,  an 
owl  or  bat,  rustling  through  the  shrubbery  as  it 
flew  by  them.  They  stopped  short  for  a  moment 
and  then  moved  on.  But  instead  of  smiling  at 
their  passing  fears.  Mile.  Renee  wound  her  arm 
more  closely  around  the  other  girl's  waist  and 
stooped  to  embrace  her. 

"Let  me  kiss  you,  dear,"  she  murmured.  "I 
am  very  fond  of  you;  are  you  fond  of  me?" 

Davidee,  a  little  surprised  but  grateful  for  this 
unlooked  for  kindness,  answered  softly: 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

They  resumed  their  slow  pace,  avoiding  bogs 
and  pitfalls  and  passing  a  lonely  house  here  and 
there,  until  they  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  church 
tower,  a  dim  shadow  rising  a  little  darker  against 
the  night  sky.  Then  they  turned  back  to  the 
house  where  they  were  Hving  in  order  to  teach 
the  village  children  how  to  live.  They  were 
influences  there — if  not  personages,  as  the  younger 
one  had  said — strong,  youthful  influences — one  in 
the  fulness  of  her  ardour,  eager  to  spend  herself 
for  her  scholars,  the  other  already  disillusionized, 
having  exhausted  an  enthusiasm  which  had  never 
been  very  keen,  and  fallen  back  on  lower  ambi- 
tions though  continuing  faithful  to  the  letter  of 
her  duties. 

Both  had  studied  hard  and  knew  more  than  all 
the  other  dwellers  of  Ardesie  put  together,  with 
the  exception  of  the  cure  and  one  or  two  engi- 
neers established  in  the  village.    Ardesie,  owing 


28  DAVIDEEBIROT 

to  its  slight  importance,  had  no  school  besides 
theirs,  the  boys  being  sent  to  school  in  a  neigh- 
bouring commune. 

These  girls  had  left  their  homes  and  families 
as  all  their  colleagues  had,  in  order  to  teach  and 
live  among  the  poor,  absorbed  in  their  profes- 
sional duties,  far  from  the  pleasures  of  town  and 
congenial  society,  and  surrounded  by  a  stern  and 
desolate  landscape.  They  could  lay  aside  but 
little  from  their  slender  salaries,  and  marriage  was 
a  difficult  question  for  them,  since  thej'-  belonged 
to  an  exceptional  world,  unclassed  as  they  were 
by  their  very  education,  with  minds  sufficiently 
cultivated  to  make  an  unequal  marriage  unen- 
durable and  yet  bound  by  close  ties  to  the  class  in 
which  they  taught  and  from  which  they  had 
sprung — bound  to  it  by  their  early  education, 
by  many  of  their  tastes  and  some  of  their  jeal- 
ousies and  ambitions. 

Nine  o'clock  was  striking  as  the  young  teach- 
ers opened  the  school-house  door.  They  lighted 
a  pair  of  candles  set  in  tw^in  candlesticks  of  blue 
and  white  china,  and  mounted  the  stairs  to  their 
rooms,  but  as  they  parted  on  the  landing,  the 
two  faces,  dimly  lighted  by  the  gleam  of  the  can- 
dles, smiled  upon  one  another. 

"  Good-night,  Mademoiselle ! " 

"Good-night,  Davidee!" 

"Is  it  the  dawning  of  a  new  friendship?"  the 
younger  girl  asked  herself.  "  Is  the  Principal  really 
about  to  be  something  beyond  what  a  head-mistress 
is  apt  to  be;  that  is  to  say,  a  near  neighbour,  a 
watchful  authority,  but  a  moral  life  totally  apart 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  29 

from  ours,  a  judge  useful  to  consult  and  difficult  to 
love?  "  But  her  thoughts  did  not  dwell  long  upon 
Mile.  Desforges.  She  drew  aside  the  white  curtain 
of  her  one  little  window  and  gazed  out  toward  the 
north,  trying  to  discern  the  light  from  an  upper 
chamber  which  often  burned  far  into  the  night. 
For  there  Maieul  dwelt,  in  a  large,  almost  noble 
house,  standing  as  it  did  on  one  of  the  mounds 
left  by  a  forgotten  generation  and  overlooking 
the  whole  slate-country.  But  she  could  see 
nothing  save  a  few  twinkling  lights  in  the  fore- 
ground which  seemed  to  indicate  the  hamlet  of 
Morellerie. 

"That  Maieul!  I  detest  him  now!"  she  said 
to  herself  as  with  her  finger  tips  she  rubbed  away 
the  mist  her  breath  had  left  on  the  window-pane. 
"Ah,  those  men  who  live  with  a  woman  for  years 
and  then  abandon  her!  The  species  is  common 
enough  and  odious  enough!  Phrosine  may  have 
tried  in  vain  to  persuade  him  to  marry  her,  for 
she  is  older  than  he,  much  older,  ten  years  at 
least.  And  those  are  the  surroundings  in  which 
little  Anna  Le  Floch  lives!  I  no  longer  wonder 
that  she  is  shy  and  sad,  and  yet  I  have  some- 
times scolded  the  child!  She  is  not  one  of  my 
pupils,  to  be  sure,  but  how  I  wish  that  she  were, 
so  that  I  might  clasp  her  tenderly  to  my  heart, 
since  her  mother  is  unworthy!  How  hard  it  will 
be  to  show  a  friendly  face  to  Phrosine  to-morrow! 
But  it  would  be  useless  for  me  to  speak  out  what 
I  think.  One  may  pity  but  never  blame !  Blame ! 
Oh,  why  did  this  Maieul  offer  to  work  in  our  gar- 
den?   ^ATiy  was  he  so  eager  to  do  something  for 


30  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

me,  or  rather  for  us?  One  never  can  tell,  and  he 
is  so  silent.  How  glad  I  should  be  to  see  him  the 
head  of  a  decent  family  such  as  are  not  lacking, 
even  in  Ardesie!  To  see  him  a  good  husband,  a 
steady  workman,  living  in  his  own  little  cottage, 
well-kept  and  tidy,  with  a  swarm  of  children  on 
his  knees!  Three  or  four  or  even  five,  if  it  is 
possible  to  hold  so  many  at  once!"  She  smiled 
as  she  conjured  up  this  picture,  for  the  maternal 
instinct  was  strong  within  her  and  her  thoughts 
now  reverted  to  her  own  little  pupils  and  the 
morrow's  work.  She  undressed  rapidly  and  lay 
down  on  the  narrow  cot-bed  protected  from  the 
wind  by  one  thin  curtain  only.  The  wind  whis- 
tled in  chilly  blasts  and  set  her  candle  flickering, 
so  Davidee  hastened  to  blow  it  out  and  was  soon 
asleep. 

Night  had  come  with  its  needful  rest,  but  not 
to  all.  Suffering  and  pleasure,  poverty  and  duty 
still  kept  their  vigils!  At  that  very  hour,  in  a 
pothouse  on  the  lower  road  which  the  two  girls 
had  passed  in  their  walk,  a  young  slate-cutter 
was  being  enticed  to  drink  away  his  week's  earn- 
ings. At  that  hour,  in  a  poor  house  in  the  vil- 
lage street,  little  Jeannie  Fete-Dieu  had  risen  and 
crept  with  bare  feet  to  her  grandmother's  bed- 
side and  stood  beside  it  holding  her  flickering 
candle — the  only  being  awake  in  the  house — 
watching  the  worn  pallid  face  of  the  sleeper  who 
had  called  to  her  in  her  dreams.  Beneath  the 
great  searchlights  carters  were  still  busy  in  the 
quarries  carrj^ing  off  the  refuse  of  the  day's  work. 
Here  and  there  a  rabbit-snarer,  a  tramp  or  a 


DAVIDEEBIROT  31 

poacher  was  prowling  along  the  tracks  of  one  of 
the  deserted  quarries,  while  above  them  all,  the 
moon  was  making  her  tranquil  way  through 
heavy  banks  of  cloud. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE  BIROT  FAMILY. 

Where  was  Davidee  Birot's  home?  It  was  a 
small  village  by  the  sea  in  the  Charente  region 
where  the  coast-line  rises  softly  like  the  bevelled 
edge  of  a  mirror,  and  the  long  beach  slopes  grad- 
ually beneath  a  shallow  tide. 

She  came  of  a  land-holding  family  which,  how- 
ever, had  long  been  settled  on  the  water's  edge 
within  sight  of  the  open  sea.  The  father  had  not 
always  lived  as  now  upon  his  income.  A  jour- 
neyman stone-cutter,  skilled  in  his  trade,  tenacious 
in  his  business  dealings,  surly  but  intelligent.  Con- 
stant Birot  had  made  his  tour  of  France,  and  had 
chiselled,  hammered,  and  carved  every  species  of 
stone,  hard  and  soft,  marble  and  granite,  from  the 
ancient  lava  of  the  Central  Range  to  the  cream  or 
rust-coloured  agglomerates  in  which  he  delighted 
to  find  the  shell-deposits. 

On  his  return  to  his  native  province  after  amass- 
ing some  hundreds  of  francs,  he  had  entered  into 
partnership  with  the  son  of  a  good  family  there, 
named  Hubert.  Together  they  had  purchased  a 
granite  quarry  outside  the  village,  on  the  wide 
treeless  plain  encircling  "Blandes  of  the  Green 
Shutters."  Hubert  had  furnished  the  funds, 
Birot  undertaking  to  act  as  overseer,  and  the 
business  developed  slowly.    Birot,  who  was  defi- 

32 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  33 

cient  in  general  education,  had  found  this  a  great 
disadvantage  in  his  trade,  and  as  his  ambition  to 
rise  in  the  world  increased,  he  became  more  and 
more  irritated  by  this  drawback  which  he  regarded 
as  an  injustice  of  fate,  and  through  a  delusion 
caused  by  vanity,  he  had  grown  to  exaggerate  the 
value  of  that  learning  which  he  had  not  acquired 
and  to  attribute  to  this  cause  alone  all  his  limita- 
tions and  failures. 

Accordingly,  when,  after  his  marriage  with  a 
woman  of  modest  means,  two  children  were  born 
to  them,  he  announced  that  his  son  was  to  be  an 
engineer,  and  that  his  daughter  also  should  have 
a  fine  position  in  the  world.  The  son's  career  did 
not  turn  out  a  success,  and  after  proving  an  indif- 
ferent scholar  at  the  Lycee,  where  he  was  more 
than  once  threatened  with  expulsion,  he  finally 
obtained  a  clerical  position  in  a  prefecture  in  the 
south,  and  was  thenceforth  rarely  seen  in  Blandes. 
Madame  Birot's  friends  asserted  that  he  only 
retained  this  second-rate  post  through  the  in- 
fluence and  pohtical  relations  of  Birot  the  father. 
This  latter,  in  fact,  who  was  already  rich  and  still 
engaged  in  active  business,  having  bought  out  his 
partner  and  become  the  sole  proprietor  of  the 
quarr}^,  had  grown  to  be  an  important  figure,  not 
only  in  Blandes,  but  throughout  the  region,  even  as 
far  as  La  Rochelle.  At  Blandes  itself  he  ruled  su- 
preme, he  had  been  elected  mayor  and  constantly 
re-elected,  and  was  always  sure  of  being  so,  hav- 
ing become  what  may  be  styled  an  absolute 
mayor.    He  even  aspired  to  the  prefecture. 

He  had  all  the  requisite  gifts  for  the  forcible 


34  DAVIDEE    BIROT 

conquest  of  municipal  supremacy  in  a  period  of 
local  jealousies  and  violent  transitions.  He  had 
a  methodical  mind  and  a  memory  as  implacable 
as  were  his  hatreds,  but  he  could  show  himself 
obliging  and  serviceable  enough  toward  those 
whom  he  did  not  hate.  Always  jovial  and  a 
good  fellow  at  first  sight,  and  continuing  so  toward 
those  who  yielded  to  his  will,  talkative  and  ap- 
parently open,  with  a  hand  ever  extended  in  cord- 
ial greeting,  he  was,  nevertheless,  beneath  this 
expansive  exterior,  a  keen,  suspicious  observer. 
The  first  offence,  the  smallest  failure  on  the  part 
of  a  subordinate  which  touched  him  oflicially  or 
in  his  private  interests,  called  forth  an  immediate 
response,  and  often  one  of  startling  brutality. 
Every  word,  every  gesture,  every  threat,  all  the 
damaging  stories  accumulated  for  thirty  years  in 
that  tenacious  memory,  every  insinuation  that 
might  be  brought,  sustained  as  it  was  sure  to  be 
by  ready  proofs,  overwhelmed  his  victim.  Birot 
never  denounced  secretly;  he  proclaimed  his 
wrath  loudly  and  demanded  vengeance  on  his  op- 
ponents, sustaining  his  demand  with  promises  of 
reward  which  were  invariably  fulfilled.  Accord- 
ingly the  pubHc  school  teacher  was  discharged, 
the  postmistress  dismissed  in  disgrace,  the  mu- 
nicipal counsellor  saw  his  demand  for  the  reprieve 
of  his  son  as  reservist  refused,  and  the  son  of 
an  old  peasant  woman,  a  soldier,  was  unable  to 
obtain  leave  of  absence  for  the  harvest.  Neither 
sex  nor  youth  nor  penitence  on  the  part  of  the 
culprit  availed  against  the  sentence  of  old  Birot 
whether  already  pronounced  or  about  to  be  so. 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  35 

Never  had  he  been  known  to  grant  a  pardon. 
Never  had  a  debtor  obtained  a  respite  from  this 
burly  red-faced  creditor  who  laughed  as  he  cried, 
"Pay!  pay  first!  we'll  see  about  it  afterwards," 
but  his  laugh  was  merely  a  tribute  to  his  own 
power,  to  his  sense  of  his  rights,  and  the  force  of 
legality.  No  one  had  ever  accused  him  of  cow- 
ardice. It  was  hi's  habit  to  go  straight  to  any 
citizen  who  had  been  accused  of  speaking  ill  of 
him  and  ask  him  outright: 

"Is  it  true  that  you  have  been  running  me 
down?  Or  is  it  a  lie?  Are  you  my  friend  or  my 
enemy?  This  is  your  time  to  speak  openly." 
He  was  accused  of  being  pitiless  and  it  was  true. 
It  was  also  commonly  said  of  him:  "This  man 
has  no  heart;"  and  this  was  false.  He  loved  his 
trade  and  his  quarry  at  Blandes,  he  loved  his 
blocks  of  granite  and  fine  ashlar,  his  solid  founda- 
tion-stones, well-hewn  and  laid  in  perfect  equi- 
librium. Although  he  w^as  beginning  to  walk 
with  difficulty  on  the  bow-legs  which  ill-sustained 
his  mighty  paunch,  he  would  gladly  travel  six 
kilometres  across  country  for  the  sake  of  seeing 
a  new  f agade,  the  fine  span  of  a  bridge,  a  mile- 
stone or  a  pedestal  which  did  honour  to  the  work- 
man or  the  mine  from  which  it  came.  But  above 
all,  he  loved  his  daughter.  Davidee  had  been 
born  during  what  he  called  his  hard-times,  that 
is,  the  period  when  he  had  laboured  with  his  owti 
hands  with  exemplaiy  ardour,  conscientiousness, 
and  diligence.  When  he  returned  home  at  night 
she  was  there,  a  dainty  creature  with  little  hands 
outstretched  to  greet  him,  dehcate  hands  which 


36  DAVIDlilEBIROT 

filled  him  with  wonder;  the  nose  a  Httle  tip-tilted, 
the  eyes  fixed  eagerly  on  him,  full  of  infantile 
admiration,  and  the  memory  of  yesterday's  gam- 
bols, eyes  moist  and  brilHant  with  a  tenderness 
whose  power  she  already  knew. 

In  her  he  recognized  himself,  not  perhaps  as 
he  was,  but  as  he  might  have  been.  He  would 
often  say  to  her: 

"My  little  Davidee,  you  are  intelligent.  I  am 
no  fool,  but  I  lack  education.  You  shall  have  the 
best  of  educations.  I  will  buy  books  for  you,  the 
biggest  and  the  most  expensive,  all  you  want. 
I  will  hire  teachers  for  you,  teachers  of  writing, 
reading,  and  arithmetic,  of  all  that  can  be  taught. 
I  will  spend  my  last  copper  on  you  so  that  you 
may  do  me  credit,  for  j^ou  see  I  no  longer  count 
on  your  brother !    Come  here  and  kiss  me,  child ! " 

And  he  would  lift  her  proudly  in  his  arms,  those 
arms  whose  muscles,  long  used  to  lifting  heavy 
weights,  carried  the  child  as  lightly  as  if  she  had 
been  made  of  thistledown.  He  would  then  seat 
her  in  a  wicker  chair,  perched  on  four  high  legs, 
bought  for  her  at  the  same  time  as  her  nursing 
bottle,  and  which  still  served — in  spite  of  her 
mother's  shrugs — for  the  little  maid  Da\ad^e,  now 
grown  as  tall  as  a  sheaf  of  wheat.  Her  father 
wished  it  to  be  so  because  his  heavy  heart  knew 
but  one  joy  on  earth  and  feared  to  lose  it,  and 
seeing  the  child  still  seated  in  her  baby  chair,  he 
could  pei*suade  himself  more  easily  that  nothing 
was  changed.  Birot  drew  the  chair  to  the  fire, 
which  the  mother  had  built  sparingly,  and  threw 
upon  the  heap  of  smouldering  coals  and  embers 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  37 

an  armful  of  vine  fagots  from  a  tall  pile  he  had 
made  under  the  winding  kitchen  stairs. 

"There,  warm  your  little  hands,  laugh,  and 
show  your  tiny  teeth.  This  is  the  fire  I  have 
earned  for  you  with  these  arms !  This  is  the  wood 
from  my  vineyard  whose  wine  I  have  sold  to  the 
cognac  makers.  Draw  nearer,  child!  This  has 
been  a  sorry  day,  mother!  A  big  block  of  free- 
stone, split  by  the  frost,  wounded  one  of  those 
confounded  workmen  in  the  knee  and  he  expected 
me  to  pay  him  damages !  You  know  him,  Blazoin, 
that  swarthy  fellow,  with  his  hair  in  his  eyes? 
Haven't  I  been  a  workingman  too?  Have  I  never 
had  my  carcase  injured?  Do  you  suppose  I 
minced  matters  with  him?  No,  I  just  put  my 
two  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  shook  him  till  his 
bones  rattled.  That  scared  him  and  I  heard  no 
more  talk  of  damages.  Come,  little  one,  stretch 
out  your  feet  to  the  fire!  these  vine  branches  bum 
like  one's  heart." 

The  child  did  not  laugh  as  much  as  he  would 
have  liked.  She  condescendingly  allowed  her- 
self to  be  spoiled.  Children  divine  so  early  the 
power  they  have  and  how  they  can  increase  it. 
Davidee  stood  more  in  awe  of  her  silent  mother 
than  of  her  violent  father.  When  she  wanted 
anything  hard  to  obtain,  such  as  a  journey  to  La 
Rochelle,  a  day  of  mussel  fishing  in  the  bay,  a 
party  of  her  little  friends,  or  a  fine  new  doll  from 
Paris,  she  asked  Papa  Birot,  but  cast  anxious 
glances  meanwhile  at  her  mother,  moving  about 
silently  in  the  background  in  her  felt  shoes,  dark 
and  slender,  noiseless,  tireless,  dusting,  sweeping, 


38  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

polishing,  always  busy  but  never  satisfied.  A 
soul  enamoured  of  material  order  and  finding  all 
perfection  there.  When  her  mother  had  said 
yes  by  a  nod,  or  no  by  a  slight  turn  of  the  chin, 
Davidee  cared  no  more  for  Papa  Birot's  opinion. 
Her  case  was  already  lost  or  won. 

Soon  the  chair  was  too  high  for  the  child.  Davi- 
dee like  all  big  girls  preferred  to  touch  the  floor 
with  her  feet.  Birot  who  read  slowly,  stopping 
to  spell  the  comphcated  words,  now  begged  her 
to  read  the  newspaper  aloud  to  him.  Through  a 
scruple  which  would  have  astonished  his  friends, 
this  foul-mouthed  man  ran  over  the  head-lines 
of  his  radical  sheet  beforehand,  saying: 

"Davidee,  you  may  make  a  little  skip  just 
there,  and  another  here,  just  a  lamb's  skip."  He 
bent'  forward  intently  while  his  daughter  read, 
striving  to  follow  everything,  however  fast  the 
words  came,  on  the  trot  or  the  gallop,  according 
as  the  article  amused  or  bored  the  youthful  reader. 
She  had  a  naturally  deUcate  enunciation,  and  an 
alert  mind  which  played  between  the  lines  like  a 
dolphin  in  the  waves.  Ah,  the  sharp  little  thing! 
She  much  preferred  to  read  to  herself,  her  lesson 
books  or  other  volumes  which  Madame  Birot  took 
out  of  the  school  libraiy  for  her;  or  those  she  could 
borrow  from  her  friends  who  sometimes  possessed 
as  many  as  two  or  three  dozen  in  a  row  on  their 
shelves.  She  brought  home  very  high  marks 
from  school.  When  she  had  gone  to  bed  in  her 
own  chamber  just  over  the  dining-room,  which 
served  as  a  parlour  for  Madame  Birot  and  a  smok- 
ing-room for  the  old  man,  the  couple  pored  to- 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  39 

gether  over  the  marks  on  Davidee's  papers, 
and  pride  filled  their  souls  as  they  counted  up 
the  high  marks  which  invariably  signified  "well- 
done." 

But  Madame  Birot,  whose  imagination  was  less 
unbridled  than  her  husband's,  and  whose  judg- 
ment was  sounder,  did  not  always  conclude  with 
him:  "She  will  go  far!"  but  took  care  to  add: 
"Yes,  doubtless,  well-estabHshed  near  home,  she 
will  do  us  honour.  But  you  must  beware,  Birot, 
of  your  ambition.  It  has  already  driven  away 
our  son,  it  must  not  drive  away  our  daughter." 

This  advice  irritated  the  man,  who,  in  return, 
taunted  his  wife  with  being  a  hourgeoise.  He 
held  forth  on  the  subject  of  learning,  repeating 
the  phrases  he  had  caught  up  in  the  workshops, 
or  at  public  meetings,  and  which  returned  to  his 
memory,  welded  together  like  the  links  of  a  chain. 
He  knew  the  world,  he  affirmed;  he  saw  men  and 
understood  progress;  he  would  be  willing  to  sac- 
rifice his  interests,  even  his  pleasm-es,  for  his  child's 
future.  He  did  not  specify,  however,  what  he 
was  prepared  to  do.  But  it  became  known  in 
time.  The  head-mistress  of  the  girls'  school  at 
Blandes  had  long  ago  laid  her  plan  before  Con- 
stant Birot.  She  had  offered  her  services  gra- 
tuitously in  preparing  Davidee  for  the  normal 
school,  and  securing  her  admission  there. 

"Such  an  intelligent  child.  Monsieur  Birot," 
she  said  to  him;  "such  a  favourite  with  her  com- 
panions, so  clever  and  with  so  much  distinction. 
Yes,  I  can  truly  say  it,  such  distinction!  She 
is  formed  to  succeed  as  an  instructress.    She  has 


40  davidEebirot 

perhaps  too  much  sensibiHty,  but  life  will  soon 
cure  her  of  that  defect." 

"Yes,  you  may  well  say  that,"  replied  Birot. 
The  directress  continued: 

"At  fourteen,  after  she  has  rested  for  awhile, 
I  will  take  charge  of  her.  You  will  have  no  fur- 
ther responsibility.  You  will  merely  have  to 
supply  remittances." 

It  was  on  a  spring  afternoon,  to  the  sound  of 
bells  which  were  ringing  for  vespers  from  the 
tower  of  the  fortified  and  crenelated  church  of 
"Blandes  of  the  Green  Shutters,"  that  Birot  an- 
nounced to  his  wife  that  he  had  selected  a  pro- 
fession for  their  child.  The  couple  were  alone  in 
a  first-floor  chamber,  scantily  furnished  with  a 
black  walnut  bed,  with  red  cretonne  coverlet,  four 
chairs  and  a  round  table,  part  of  the  stone- 
cutter's dower,  duly  appraised  and  detailed  in  the 
marriage  contract  exacted  by  the  father  of  the 
future  Madame  Birot.  A  door  which  stood  open 
connected  this  plain,  bare,  tile-floored  room  wdth 
a  larger  one,  whose  parqueted  floor  and  muslin 
curtains,  its  brass  bed  and  mirror,  with  its  gilt 
frame  always  shrouded  in  gauze,  and  its  fine 
china  ornaments  over  the  fireplace,  seemed  pre- 
pared for  a  coming  guest.  The  parents'  room  had 
no  fireplace  though  the  atmosphere  within  the 
house  was  colder  than  without. 

_  Davidee  had  gone  with  one  of  her  friends  on  a 
visit  to  the  neighbouring  village  of  Villefeue  and 
accordingly  the  larger,  handsomer,  warmer  cham- 
ber stood  empty.  Madame  Birot,  standing  upon 
a  wooden  foot-warmer,  which  made  her  look  un- 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  41 

naturally  tall,  with  her  head  turned  toward  the 
window,  was  preparing  to  iron  three  spring  waists 
for  her  daughter — a  lilac  and  two  white  ones — 
which  now  hung  damp  and  rumpled,  on  a  tempo- 
rary clothes-line  stretched  between  two  chairs. 
An  ironing-board  was  before  her.  Birot  on  her 
right  hand,  with  his  back  to  the  light,  was  super- 
intending the  heating  of  a  posset  of  red  wine  and 
sugar,  which  stood  on  the  httle  stove  beside  the 
flat-irons. 

This  universal  remedy  was  intended  to  cure  an 
obstinate  cough  which  the  master  stone-cutter  had 
brought  back  with  him  from  the  works.  The  op- 
pressive odour  of  burning  charcoal  filled  the  room. 

Birot,  who  had  not  spoken  for  the  last  hour,  but 
sat  gnawing  his  short  moustache,  suddenly  raised 
his  resolute  face. 

"Well,  I  have  seen  Mademoiselle  Helene,"  he 
said.  "She  is  quite  ready  to  undertake  Davidee's 
instruction,  and  to  teach  her  everything — every- 
thing. She  answers  for  it  that  three  years  hence,  at 
the  latest,  the  child  will  be  capable  of  entering  the 
normal  school  on  the  rue  Dauphine  in  La  Rochelle." 

The  slender  housewife,  with  the  brown  braided 
locks,  started  sHghtly  but  did  not  speak  at  once. 
She  seized  the  lilac  waist  and  spread  it  out  on  the 
board,  smoothing  its  folds  nervously  with  fingers 
that  trembled  slightly,  as  eyelids  do  that  are  heavy 
with  tears.    Her  husband  had  time  to  add: 

"Nothing  to  pay.  Only  for  her  books,  a  mere 
trifle." 

"We  ought  to  find  out  first  whether  she  wants 
to  be  a  teacher.^  It  is  a  poor  trade." 


42  DAVIDEEBIROT 

"Thefinest  of  all." 

"  What  do  you  know  of  it?  Attending  to  other 
people's  children  when  one  might  have  some  of 
one's  own!" 

"Well,  what  will  hinder  her  from  getting  mar- 
ried?" 

"To  another  teacher,  I  suppose?  To  a  man 
who  can  be  sent  hither  and  yon,  away  from  us,  as 
a  soldier  is,  and  you  who  do  not  love  soldiers! 
It  is  just  the  same  thing.  Not  to  mention  that 
he  will  look  down  upon  me,  and  on  you  also,  for 
that  matter.  But  your  pride  prevents  your  judg- 
ing intelligently." 

"  Why  don't  you  say  at  once  that  I  have  never 
been  successful?" 

"In  business,  yes;  in  elections,  yes;  but  it  goes 
no  further,  Birot.    You  and  the  world  are  two." 

"The  world  and  you  and  I  are  three,  then. 
For  you  are  of  no  different  species  from  your  hus- 
band, my  lady.  You  are  nothing  but  the  wife 
of  a  workingman,  who  puts  on  gloves  on  fete-days, 
but  is  nobody  after  all.  Look  here!  Of  us  two, 
it  is  I  who  have  travelled  most  and  heard  how 
people  of  the  world  talk.  I  hold  my  tongue,  to 
be  sure,  when  your  friends  come  to  call  on  you, 
if  I  happen  to  be  around,  and  I  appear  like  a 
man  who  thinks  about  nothing.  But  I  make  it  up 
among  men,  I  can  tell  you.  I  am  listened  to; 
they  tremble  when  I  get  angry;  they  seek  to  know 
my  opinion,  to  guess  at  it  in  order  to  agree  with 
me  before  I  open  my  mouth.  The  gate-keepers, 
the  gendarmes,  all  the  functionaries  of  La  Ro- 
chelle,  even  the  big  fellows,  bow  low  to  me  as  if 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  43 

begging  my  leave  to  keep  their  places.  The  cure 
never  looks  at  me  when  we  meet  on  the  road, 
probably  for  fear  of  seeing  how  I  despise  him. 
The  prefect  would  ask  me  to  dinner  if  I  cared  to 
go — me  the  stone-cutter!  and  he  would  even  ask 
you  with  me  if  I  cared  to  have  him.  I  could  go 
to  his  house  in  my  blouse  and  sabots,  with  my  pipe 
and  my  oaths,  and  he  would  laugh,  the  poor  cow- 
ard! I  have  the  sort  of  power  men  don't  gain 
without  being  intelligent.  You  can't  understand 
the  pleasure  of  that!  To  give  orders  without  a 
sergeant's  stripe,  to  be  a  gendarme  in  a  blouse! 
Only  it  brings  obligations  with  it,  you  see.  I  must 
have  children  who  will  carr}^  out  my  ideas  and 
serve  the  cause,  do  you  understand?  To  have 
Davidee  married  doesn't  raise  me  in  the  world, 
but  to  have  Davidee  a  state-instructress  does  raise 
me !    And  besides,  I  can  look  after  her  promotion. ' ' 

Little  Madame  Birot,  who  was  still  ironing  away 
at  the  lilac  waist,  pointed  the  smoking  flat-iron 
toward  her  husband. 

"So  you  are  choosing  for  her!  That  is  a  pretty 
business,"  she  said. 

"No,  I  want  her  to  choose  for  me." 

"Egotist  that  you  are!" 

"Isn't  she  my  daughter,  then?" 

"She  is  mine  still  more,  as  I  am  her  mother. 
Do  you  never  think  that  you  are  taking  her  away 
from  me?  " 
^    "Three  years  from  now!" 

"Three  years  from  now  seem  like  to-morrow! 
The  fear  of  losing  her  will  stand  between  us  all 
those  days!    Birot,  do  not  do  this!    Neither  for 


44  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

yourself,  nor  for  me,  nor  for  her!  We  shall  all 
suffer  if  you  do,  each  in  our  own  way." 

Birot  rose  with  purple  face  and  hard  eyes,  and 
stretched  out  his  hand  toward  the  hot  iron  which 
his  wife  drew  back  quickly,  and  which  she  began 
to  move  to  and  fro  with  frantic  haste  over  the 
hght  muslin,  murmuring  as  she  did  so : 

"  Hard  heart !    Hard  heart ! " 

The  man  was  standing  before  her  between  the 
ironing-board  and  the  window,  and  she  paused  in 
her  work  so  that  she  could  look  him  straight  in 
the  face;  she,  facing  the  light  which  streamed  into 
the  depths  of  her  brown  eyes,  showed  him  plainly 
that  she  did  not  fear  him. 

"Bourgeoise!"  he  exclaimed  after  a  moment's 
silence,  during  which  he  recognized  that  his  anger 
would  not  prevail  this  time  over  the  wounded 
mother  who  resisted  him. 

"  Bourgeoise !  you  are  better  educated  than  I  in 
some  ways,  but  you  have  no  longing  for  educa- 
tion. As  for  me,  I  would  give  half  my  savings  to 
acquire  learning,  to  be  able  to  speak  well,  to  write 
well,  to  read  books  wdthout  my  head's  splitting, 
as  I  see  others  do.  You  think  I  only  want  to 
please  my  friends  by  making  my  daughter  a 
teacher?  Well,  no,  it's  not  merely  that.  I  want 
her  to  have  what  I  have  never  had.  I  want  her 
not  to  be  below  anybody,  not  to  be  ashamed 
when  she  meets  learned  people.  Knowledge  is  the 
thing  I  am  jealous  of.  I  never  own  it  to  the  com- 
rades; they  think  me  strong  because  I  talk  big; 
but  it  is  only  because  they  are  such  cowards  that 
they  always  give  in  to  me.     I  am  in  the  wrong 


DAVIDEEBIROT  45 

sometimes ;  I  can't  invent  everything.  It  enrages 
me,  when  I  have  to  answer  back  to  a  bourgeois 
or  to  silence  an  enemy  or  a  comrade  who  refuses 
to  obey  me,  that  I  can  only  swear  at  them.  I 
want  to  have  ideas,  knowledge,  all  that  makes 
one  able  to  laugh  at  others  instead  of  getting 
mad  mth  them.  My  daughter  shall  turn  the 
tables.  She  shall  talk  for  me,  she  shall  think  for 
me.  People  mil  say:  'How  well  she  talks,  the 
young  lady!  What  a  lot  of  things  she  knows! 
\Vhat  an  education  she  has!'  While  of  me  they 
only  say:  'That  old  Birot!  It  is  not  safe  to  be 
one  of  his  enemies!  He  hits  hard  and  fears  no- 
body.' That's  true  enough,  but  it  doesn't  con- 
tent one." 

"And  who  is  content,  Birot?  Are  you?  Or  am 
I?    Or  the  comrades  in  the  stone-yard?" 

He  repUed  by  stretching  out  his  big  broad  hand 
and  seizing  between  two  square-tipped  fingers  the 
half-ironed  waist,  puffed  out  by  the  pressing,  and 
transparent  in  the  light.  Under  his  harsh  mous- 
tache, reddened  by  the  pipe,  his  lips  spread  wide 
apart : 

"It's  this  pretty  rascal,  Da\ddee  Birot!" 

"Will  you  stop  saying  words  like  that!" 

"AVhen  she's  through  school  at  twenty,  how  the 
suitors  will  swarm  around  her  like  flies  around  a 
block  of  stone  at  noonday!" 

"Don't  touch  that  muslin,  Birot.  It  is  too 
fresh  and  fine  for  your  fingers.  Give  it  back  to 
me." 

He  merely  kept  up  his  big  laugh,  trying  to 
soften  his  wife. 


46  DAVIDEEBIROT 

"Give  it  back  to  me,  I  tell  you!  I  tell  you  not 
to  touch  it. " 

This  time  he  threw  the  waist  down  and  his 
wife  seized  it,  holding  it  up  to  see  if  he  had  left 
any  trace  of  his  fingers  on  the  muslin  and  cried 
angrily : 

"You  will  live  to  repent,  Birot.  You  who  sell 
your  daughter  to  serve  anybody's  children!  You 
will  have  grief  enough  when  you  are  only  a  poor 
old  man  and  your  daughter  is  no  longer  here 
beside  us  and  you  can  see  her  no  more!  You 
never  yield,  to  be  sure,  but  old  age  will  make  you 
bend.  You  won't  know  how  to  bear  it,  and  then 
you  will  shed  bitter  tears  at  having  driven  away 
our  little  one,  the  pretty,  the  sweet,  the  well- 
beloved!" 

He  felt  the  force  of  these  images  which  gripped 
hold  of  his  heart.  He  turned  aside  and  coughed 
to  show  that  he  was  ill,  leaning  his  head  against 
the  window.     "There  she  is!"  he  suddenly  cried. 

Madame  Birot  stepped  down  off  the  foot- 
warmer. 

"Let  me  see!"  she  said,  pushing  him  aside. 
He  did  not  protest,  for  he  obeyed  his  wife  in 
everytliing  which  did  not  concern  his  "ideas." 
Each  exercised  their  own  tyranny,  hers  within 
the  home,  his  without. 

"You  say  that  you  love  her,  the  poor  darling! 
I  know  you  only  too  well;  you  have  a  fashion 
of  loving  others  which  takes  no  account  of  their 
tastes  or  their  wishes.  Look  at  her  there!  How 
she  walks  between  the  tinman's  two  daughters! 
How  rosy  she  is  and  how  soft-hearted  and  pleased 


DAVIDEEBIROT  47 

with  life!  She  has  already  turned  her  eyes  this 
way;  there  again!  She  sees  me.  She  is  saying 
to  her  companions:  'That  is  mammal'  Poor 
innocent!  The  idea  of  making  a  teacher  out  of 
her  with  that  smile,  and  lips  like  apple  blossoms! 
The  idea  of  making  her  teach  b-a  ba,  and  dip 
steel  pens  in  ink!  Now  she  is  crossing  the  street 
alone,  and  looking  out  for  the  carriage  that  is 
coming.  I  have  so  often  told  her  she  must  look 
out  for  carriages!  Do  you  hear  her  on  the 
stairs?" 

They  had  both  turned  at  once.  They  were 
listening  for  Davidee's  light,  even  step  on  the 
wooden  stairs.  With  the  same  emotion  they 
watched  the  door  open  and  saw  in  the  rift  of  light 
from  outside  the  head  of  a  sHp  of  a  girl,  the  quick 
hand  turning  the  handle  and  throwing  the  door 
wide  open,  and  then  Davidee  standing  there  in 
the  full  light. 

"Good-morning,  papa!  Morning,  mamma!" 
Her  cheeks  were  sunburnt,  and  her  features 
still  unformed;  her  long  brown  braids  were  loos- 
ened by  running;  her  cotton  dress  with  white 
polka-dots  was  stained  and  too  short  for  her;  her 
boots  were  muddy,  and  her  legs  in  their  black 
stockings  too  stout  for  grace,  and  yet  she  had 
about  her  a  radiancy  of  youth,  a  dazzling  air  of 
health  and  vigour,  an  awkward  grace,  a  mysteri- 
ous but  evident  promise  of  intelligence,  of  ca- 
pacity for  happiness  or  suffering — ^perhaps  for 
making  others  suffer,  perhaps  for  consoling  them 
— a  something,  in  short,  which  already  out- 
stripped the  poor  calculations  of  the  parents  who 


48  DAVIDEEBIROT 

now  embraced   her,   the   father  brusquely,  the 
mother  with  a  slow,  tender  clasp. 

"Good-morning,  my  darling,  darling  Davidee." 

"Good-day,  little  one." 

She  seated  herself  on  her  mother's  knee  and 
nestled  in  her  arms,  and  Madame  Birot's  face 
grew  young  again.  It  relaxed,  softened,  and 
became  beautified,  in  its  perfect  happiness.  A 
little  more  and  she  would  have  rocked  her  child 
in  her  arms.  Even  Birot,  little  given  as  he  was 
to  idle  sentiment,  gazed  with  complacency  on  this 
group  formed  by  the  two  beings  who  belonged 
to  him  wholly,  his  wife  and  his  daughter.  His 
mind,  uncultivated  as  it  was,  controlled  his  feel- 
ings; his  emotion  at  this  moment  was  purely  men- 
tal. He  admired  Davidee's  look,  her  happiness 
at  being  petted,  but  a  happiness  which  did  not 
exclude  thought;  he  di\ined  that  those  brown 
eyes,  half-hidden  on  her  mother's  breast  and  yet 
peeping  forth  at  her  father,  around  the  room  and 
out  of  the  window,  held  a  strange  fulness  of  life, 
and  he  was  proud  of  her;  he  was  confirmed  in  his 
views  as  to  her  future,  while  the  mother  merely 
rejoiced  in  clasping  her  child  in  her  arms  and 
defending  her  body  and  soul. 
'  They  were  ahke,  Davidee  and  her  mother,  but 
the  child  had  a  mobility  of  expression  which  the 
mother  lacked.  Her  deUcate  ears,  small  and 
well-modelled,  came  neither  from  her  father  nor 
mother;  her  red,  half-parted  lips  exhaled  a  fresh, 
even  breath  which  her  mother  drew  in  like  the 
breath  of  spring.  All  three  remained  silent, 
father,  mother  and  child,  because  their  minds  were 


DAVIDEEBIROT  49 

each  absorbed  in  a  different  thought,  and  an 
obscure  sense  of  separation  lay  between  them. 

The  father  spoke  first. 

"  Did  you  enjoy  yourself?  " 

"Yes,  well  enough."  She  often  answered  in 
that  way. 

"Did  you  run?" 

"Yes,  as  fast  as  a  doe." 

"Did  you  drink  milk?" 

"I  dipped  my  nose  in  it." 

"A  big  cupful?" 

"Yes,  with  cream  as  high  as  that." 

"Who  did  you  meet  on  the  road,  gentle-folk, 
or  men  from  the  works?" 

"Your  men,  papa." 

"Did  they  bow  to  you?" 

"They  didn't  seem  to  recognize  me." 

The  man  gave  a  scowl  and  muttered: 

"If  you  were  the  daughter  of  a  rich  patron, 
who  did  no  work,  of  a  noble  or  a  half-noble,  they 
would  have  recognized  you  fast  enough.  But 
the  daughter  of  one  of  themselves,  who  has  worked 
harder  and  earned  more  than  they,  her  they  pass 
by  as  if  she  were  nobody.  The  jealous  dogs! 
How  disgusting  it  is  to  get  on  in  the  world  and 
yet  not  be  looked  up  to!" 

He  snorted  furiously  through  his  bristling  mous- 
tache as  he  spoke.  Davidee's  mother  was  bend- 
ing over  her,  unbuttoning  her  damp,  muddy 
shoes  and  struggling  over  each  button.  When 
she  had  pulled  the  shoes  off  she  carefully  felt  of 
the  child's  feet. 

"They  are  wet,  you  naughty  girl;  you  will  catch 


60  davidEebirot 

cold.  Oh!  how  I  hate  letting  you  go  away  from 
home  like  that.  Wait  while  I  get  you  some 
dry  stockings  from  the  closet."  So  speaking,  she 
drew  off  the  clinging  stockings  as  if  she  were 
skinning  a  little  rabbit,  while  the  child's  long  legs 
steamed  in  the  warm  room,  Davidee  was  laugh- 
ing, her  head  leaning  against  the  chair-back. 
Her  mother  had  lifted  her  in  her  arms  as  she  rose 
and  set  her  down  again  a  little  sideways,  telling 
her  not  to  touch  her  feet  to  the  ground,  while  she 
ran  hastily  to  the  clothes-press  and  turned  the 
creaking  lock,  which  invariably  resisted. 

Papa  Birot  seized  the  opportunity  to  approach 
without  rising  from  his  chair,  by  dragging  it  along 
with  him,  and  seized  one  of  the  girl's  hands  as 
it  hung  at  her  side. 

"Look  here,  child!  tell  her  it  is  all  settled." 

''Wliat  is  settled,  papa?" 

She  knew  perfectly  what  he  meant,  but  she 
hesitated,  because  she  had  a  tender  heart  which 
suffered  at  the  thought  of  giving  pain  to  others. 
She  divined  that  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room 
an  ear  was  bent  to  listen  to  them,  as  the  lower 
drawer  slid  softly  open  and  was  softly  closed  again. 

"Tell  her  that  you  want  to  be  a  teacher.  You 
must  speak  out  frankly  now  that  you're  a  big 
girl.  Who  did  you  meet  over  yonder?  Did  you 
not  meet  a  lady  whom  father  had  asked  to  meet 
you?" 

Davidee  was  a  resolute  girl  as  well  as  a  sensi- 
tive one.  She  rose  now  and  stood  barefooted  on 
the  floor,  saying  solemnly  and  in  measured  tones 
as  if  pronouncing  an  oath: 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  51 

"I  will  be  a  teacher.  I  have  met  the  directress. 
I  will  begin  to-morrow." 

But  no  sooner  had  she  spoken  than  her  heart 
resumed  its  sway;  she  was  about  to  throw  herself 
into  her  father's  arms  when  she  found  herself 
seized  by  the  waist,  lifted  and  forcibly  replaced 
in  the  chair,  while  her  mother  kneehng  in  front 
of  her  pressed  the  two  small  feet  against  her 
breast  so  vehemently  as  almost  to  crush  them,  as 
unrolling  a  pair  of  black  stockings  she  exclaimed : 

"Just  wait  till  I  give  you  a  scolding.  Can't 
you  stay  where  I  put  you?" 

But  whether  the  child's  limbs  were  still  damp 
or  the  mother's  hands  trembled,  the  woollen  stock- 
ings refused  to  shp  on,  and  Madame  Birot,  bending 
over  them,  was  nothing  now  but  a  poor  unnerved 
mother,  helpless  between  her  husband  and  child. 

"God  have  mercy!"  she  murmured. 

"There  is  no  God!"  replied  Birot. 

No  one  resented  this  blasphemous  utterance, 
neither  mother  nor  daughter,  for  they  were  used 
to  such  words.  Birot  pushed  his  chair  back  with 
his  foot,  and  began  walking  up  and  down  the 
chamber  without  removing  his  gaze  from  his 
wife,  who  still  bent  over  her  task  with  blinded 
eyes.  Davidee  had  turned  pale,  youth  for  a  mo- 
ment seemed  to  have  vanished  from  her  face; 
there  where  it  was  wont  to  bloom  and  play  over 
the  curves  of  her  cheek,  her  low  forehead  and  the 
darkly  arched  eyebrows  that  nearly  met,  there 
was  now  only  the  shade  of  pity  for  her  weeping 
mother,  and  the  gravity  of  a  child  who  for  the 
first  time  is  conscious  of  another's  grief. 


52  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

"You  look  like  the  directress,  yes,  already!" 
exclaimed  her  father. 

Davidee  tried  to  smile  but  did  not  succeed. 
Her  mother,  wiping  away  her  tears  with  the  hem 
of  her  apron,  rose  and  said : 

"Go  and  draw  some  water,  Birot,  for  me  to 
wash  mv  hands!" 

She  was  makhig  him  pay  for  having  won  the 
day.  She  had  yielded  to  the  man  who  would  not 
tolerate  the  least  opposition  to  his  "ideas,"  but 
she  now  recalled  to  him  that  at  home,  in  house- 
hold affairs,  it  was  she  who  ruled.  Her  husband 
made  no  resistance,  but  descended  the  stairs 
heavily,  and  they  heard  him  push  open  the  door 
which  led  into  their  httle  garden. 

When  he  re-entered,  puffing  and  panting,  with 
the  water-pail  on  his  outstretched  right  arm  while 
the  left  was  bent  to  serve  as  a  balance,  he  found 
Davidee  in  her  mother's  arms;  the  httle  one  was 
caressing  the  thin  temples  where  the  hair  was 
wearing  awa}^ 

"I  shall  come  home,"  she  said;  "you  will  see 
how  nice  it  wdll  be  during  the  vacations.  You 
■will  be  proud  of  your  httle  girl.  Mamma,  do  not 
ciy;  do  not  put  such  grief  into  my  heart  that  it 
will  never  go  away.  I  have  a  friend  who  is  going 
to  be  a  teacher  too.  She  is  the  best  scholar  in 
the  class,  so  you  see!" 

Her  father  set  down  the  pail,  which,  being  full 
to  the  brim,  spilt  over  on  the  floor. 

"Can't  you  be  a  little  more  careful,  Birot?" 

He  pulled  at  the  ends  of  his  moustache  and  said, 
with  no  ill-temper  left  in  his  voice: 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  53 

"I  am  going  out  to  see  my  friends  who  are 
waiting  for  me  at  the  cafe.  Don't  you  worry, 
Davidee ;  before  you  leave  home  I  shall  have  built 
a  fine  new  house  with  a  parlour,  and  running  water 
in  the  bedrooms,  and  the  year  inscribed  by  me 
in  the  key-stone  over  the  front  door,  and  a  porch, 
and  a  garden  with  a  fountain  in  it.  Yes,  if  busi- 
ness goes  on  prospering  as  it  is  doing  now,  I  shall 
certainly  build  that  house.  And  all  the  ladies  in 
Blandes  will  envy  Madame  Birot.  She  will  be 
quite  happy,  your  mother,  in  her  new  house, 
where  she  will  spend  all  her  time  embroidering 
underclothes  for  you,  child,  and  doing  worsted 
work." 

Madame  Birot  turned  her  head  at  this. 

"And  alone  of  course!  You  think  I  shall  be 
happy  in  a  house  where  I  am  all  alone?" 

"And  what  of  me,  and  our  son?  Don't  we 
count  for  anything?"  And  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders, Birot  left  the  room. 

Spring  came  at  last  and  Davidee  began  her 
studies.  She  had  good  marks  and  was  in  excel- 
lent health.  Little  by  little  her  mother,  who  from 
the  first  moment  had  recognized  the  ine\dtable, 
grew  resigned  to  living  with  her  grief  as  if  wedded 
to  it,  and  made  no  further  complaint.  Birot  de- 
clared : 

"She  has  grown  used  to  the  idea.  She  will  be 
as  proud  as  I."  But  it  was  not  so.  This  woman 
who  had  great  powers  of  self-control  and  who 
at  another  period  and  under  other  conditions, 
might  have  developed  a  deep  inner  life  and 
habits  of  meditation,  continued  inwardly  rebel- 


54  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

lious  as  at  first,  but  kept  silence  for  the  sake  of 
peace.  What  would  it  have  availed  to  struggle? 
Their  son  already  promised  little  comfort  to  his 
parents;  he  would  never  attach  his  father  to  the 
house,  and,  far  from  being  a  bond  of  union,  he 
was  a  subject  of  mutual  reproaches:  "He  is  like 
you! "  " That  may  be,  but  it  was  you  who  spoiled 
him. "  If  Davidee  were  made  the  subject  of  fresh 
quarrels,  Birot  was  capable  of  any  violent  action. 
The  mother,  therefore,  having  once  uttered  her 
grief,  kept  it  hidden  like  a  treasure,  like  a  secret 
all  her  own,  in  the  depths  of  her  soul  where  she 
visited  it  when  she  was  alone  and  wept. 

But  before  Birot,  before  her  friends,  before  the 
"world,"  she  wore  a  placid  smile,  which  no  one 
distinguished  at  first  from  an  expression  of  tran- 
quil contentment,  of  vanity  flattered  by  her 
child's  successes. 

"She  is  as  ambitious  as  Monsieur  Birot,"  said 
the  neighbours;  "and  moreover,  who  is  it  that 
rules  the  house?  Isn't  it  she?"  They  could  not 
draw  the  distinction,  nor  recognize  the  curious 
phenomenon  by  which  this  stone-cutter,  docile 
in  aU  domestic  matters,  became  a  tjrant  where 
his  "ideas"  were  concerned.  Even  before  her 
daughter,  Madame  Birot  never  showed  the  trouble 
which  seldom  left  her.  She  had  but  one  Uttle 
hobby,  which  was  to  dwell  constantly  on  the  past, 
as  if  the  best  of  life  for  her  was  already  there  in 
the  years  that  had  flown. 

"I  remember  one  day,  Davidee,  when  you  were 
only  four  years  old.  Oh,  how  pretty  you  were 
with  your  long  curls,  and  the  arms  you  threw 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  55 

round  one's  neck  so  coaxingly !  I  remember  some- 
thing you  once  said  .  .  .  a  walk  we  took  .  .  .  and 
one  night  when  you  woke  feverish  and  with  a 
hard  cough,  so  hard  that  I  jumped  out  of  bed  and 
ran  to  your  crib  in  my  night-dress,  crying,  'It  is 
croup,  Birot;  our  darling  has  the  croup!'" 

In  her  heart  she  was  constantly  counting  the 
days  between  the  vacations,  and  the  examinations 
which  succeeded  each  other  so  rapidly.  She  had 
a.  horror,  barely  dissimulated,  of  all  books  and 
copybooks,  and  of  the  black-board  which  they 
had  been  obliged  to  purchase  and  set  up  in  the 
white  chamber. 

David^e  worked  diligently;  she  brought  to  her 
daily  tasks  a  clear  mind,  marked  taste  for  study 
and  pride  in  learning.  Her  father  was  right  in 
saying  of  her:  "You  are  the  picture  of  me — • 
flattered  of  course — when  you  are  bending  over 
a  book.  Oh,  how  I  should  have  loved  that!" 
But  her  kinship  to  her  mother  showed  more 
plainly  still.  Child  of  an  anxious,  self-tormenting 
mother,  Davidee  was  already  a  dreamer  at  the  age 
when  most  girls  are  thinking  only  of  the  sports 
of  to-day,  or  the  lover  of  to-morrow.  Possessed 
outwardly  of  a  calm  natiu-e  like  her  mother,  but 
not  limited,  in  her  capacity  for  dreaming  and 
suffering,  to  her  home  or  her  village.  She  pored 
over  books;  she  read,  she  sought,  she  divined,  and 
soon  became  conscious  that  her  intellectual  long- 
ings would  never  be  appeased  by  the  teacher  who 
had  first  contributed  to  awaken  this  thirst  for 
knowing  and  understanding.  She  was  but  slightly 
concerned   about   religious   questions.    Madame 


56  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

Birot,  in  the  early  days  of  her  married  Hfe,  had 
renounced  all  genuine  religious  observances.  At 
the  great  festivals,  like  All  Souls  and  Easter,  she 
was  to  be  seen  in  the  Blandes  church  directly 
under  the  spot  where  a  small  model  of  a  three- 
masted  vessel  was  suspended  as  a  votive  offering, 
and  this  sufficed  to  prevent  her  being  ranked  as 
anti-religious.  Her  husband,  on  the  contrary,  was 
openly  and  violently  hostile  to  rehgion,  to  priests 
and  to  all  religious  schools,  and  regarded  the 
Catholic  Church  merely  as  a  political  institution 
opposed  to  the  State  of  which  he  considered  him- 
self an  influential  adherent.  Under  his  roof  no 
word  was  ever  uttered  in  favour  of  religion.  Sacred 
pictures  or  books  expounding  the  faith  were  never 
seen.  Outside  her  home,  on  rare  occasions,  Davi- 
dee  had  heard  some  acquaintance  complain  of 
the  tyranny  of  the  existing  laws  and  their  func- 
tionaries, and  express  regret  at  the  closing  of  the 
convents,  especially  of  the  school  conducted  by 
nuns,  in  which  many  mothers  of  families  in  Blandes 
had  received  their  education.  But  having  no 
comprehension  of  the  religious  life,  she  felt  no 
sympathy  for  those  sufferings  which  reach  above 
the  merety  human  order  of  emotions;  she  pitied 
only  those  aged  nuns  of  whom  she  was  told  that 
they  were  "dying  of  hunger."  For  her,  Catholi- 
cism was  a  religion  which  had  had  its  day;  she 
confounded  the  complaints  of  the  faithful  with 
opposition  to  the  party  in  power.  She  heard 
perpetual  talk  of  "the  clericals,  those  eternal 
enemies  of  the  Republic,"  and  she  regarded  them 
as    troublesome    malcontents    whom    Monsieur 


david£:e  birot  57 

Birot's  journals  accused  of  opposing  all  prog- 
ress. 

One  religious  memory  alone  flitted  across  the 
solitude  of  her  heaven,  above  her  little  plot  of 
earth,  fertile,  cultivated  and  overflowing  with 
abundance.  The  shadow  of  its  wing  was  hght, 
and  yet  the  earth  had  felt  it.  Davidee  remem- 
bered her  first  communion,  never  renew^ed,  and 
ill-prepared  for,  but  fervent.  Certainly  she  had 
missed  many  lessons  in  the  catechism,  which  her 
mother  had  barely  consented  to  hear  her  recite 
in  her  father's  absence.  And  yet  there  had  been 
for  one  day  a  response  of  this  pure  young  soul  to 
the  touch  of  a  divine  joy  which  left  her  still  won- 
dering. A  solitary  impulse  of  the  heart,  a  desire 
to  be  good  forever,  and  a  luminous  peace  had  set- 
tled over  her.  For  a  moment,  more  or  less,  she 
had  felt  the  reasonable  and  sweet  persuasion  of 
being  a  soul,  a  power  capable  of  the  loftiest  flights, 
a  frail  being  lost  and  glorified  in  a  Greater  Being. 

No  one  ever  spoke  to  her  again  of  that  moment 
which  so  many  other  moments  had  covered  up 
and  buried.  Her  white  dress  had  been  given 
away;  her  crown  of  roses,  preserved  for  awhile 
among  her  girlish  treasures,  had  lost  its  petals, 
and  finally,  when  the  family  moved  from  one 
house  to  another,  had  been  thrown  away,  with 
her  mother-of-pearl  rosary  and  gold  medal,  with- 
out either  her  father  or  mother's  admitting  the 
least  remembrance  of  having  seen  or  touched 
them.  Of  these  sacred  rehcs  of  her  first  and  only 
communion  the  sole  remaining  one  was  a  Httle 
prayer-book  bound  in  fawn-coloured  morocco. 


68  DAVID  EEBIROT 

David^e  was  admitted  to  the  examination  for 
the  normal  school  in  July,  1902.  During  the 
vacation  she  paid  a  little  visit  in  the  south  to  be 
near  her  brother,  who  was  a  clerk  in  the  pre- 
fecture. At  the  same  time  the  master  quarry- 
man  was  superintending  the  construction  of  the 
fine  new  house  which  he  had  long  aspired  to  pos- 
sess; he  studied  plans;  he  himself  drew  designs 
for  the  flight  of  six  broad  steps  leading  up  to  the 
porch,  and  for  the  cornices  and  window  sills.  He 
rarely  left  the  workshop,  but  received  there  the 
envious  homage  of  his  cronies  who  now  invaria- 
bly styled  him  Monsieur  Birot;  who  mentally 
calculated  the  cost  of  the  building  while  they 
openly  praised  the  quahty  of  the  materials  em- 
ployed, the  size  of  the  dining  and  reception  rooms, 
and  the  plan  of  the  two  connecting  gardens,  the 
lower  and  smaller  enclosed  by  an  iron  railing,  the 
larger  which  sloped  upward  toward  the  church, 
surrounded  by  high  walls.  Along  these  walls,  as 
Birot  explained,  with  a  sweeping  gesture  of  his 
arm,  was  to  extend  a  plantation  of  peach  and 
cheriy  trees,  garden  grapes  and  even  a  mimosa, 
the  latter  ostensibly  because  "Madame  Birot  was 
wild  to  have  one,"  but  actually  for  the  reason 
that  no  one  in  Blandes  had  ever  possessed  a 
mimosa. 

The  three  years  at  the  normal  school  were 
years  of  success  for  Davidee  and  of  pride  for 
Monsieur  Birot.  Davidee  was  now  a  young  girl; 
her  large  black  eyes,  her  scarlet  lips  and  the  raven 
hair  piled  above  her  forehead  like  a  casque  or 
crown  made  her  look  hke  a  daughter  of  the  south. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  59 

She  walked  well,  with  a  supple  grace,  though  she 
was  not  tall,  being  only  an  inch  taller  than  her 
little  mother  and  two  inches  shorter  than  her 
father;  when  she  laughed  she  showed  two  rows 
of  dazzHng  teeth.  But  there  was  nothing  of  the 
south  about  her  mind.  She  had  acute  sensibili- 
ties which  her  reason  was  powerless  to  control, 
though  outwardly  she  appeared  to  dominate  them. 
She  was  never  seen  to  shed  tears,  her  face  re- 
mained calm,  her  speech  clear  and  deliberate  under 
any  stress  of  emotion,  something  of  her  father's 
sturdy  will  revealing  itself  in  her  bearing.  Her 
friends,  little  expert  in  reading  souls,  would  say 
to  her:  "How  lucky  you  are  to  be  so  entirely 
mistress  over  external  impressions!  Have  you 
any  emotions  which  are  not  swayed  by  your  rea- 
son?" They  were  unaware  that  the  immovable 
green  earth,  a  shallow  crust,  hides  deep  internal 
springs,  and  that  every  oscillation  of  the  surface, 
every  sHghtest  vibration,  stirs  these  quivering 
unknown  deeps.  A  reproach,  an  injustice,  a 
sorrow,  agitated  Davidee  for  weeks,  and  ideas 
and  thoughts,  with  her,  prolonged  themselves 
in  emotion.  She  asked  herself  perpetually: 
"  Whence  comes  this  feeble  light  which  is  granted 
me?  How  does  it  serve  to  illuminate  my  path, 
or  that  of  others,  or  the  world?  Have  I  under- 
stood such  and  such  a  daily  problem?  To  what 
conclusion  will  these  principles  lead  me?  How 
will  they  affect  to-morrow's  actions,  and  in  the 
past  how  should  I  have  acted  if  I  had  known  this 
earHer?"  Her  mind  wearied  itself  in  following 
these  paths  without  a  landmark,  with  no  leading 


60  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

by  her  parents,  nor  by  any  later  guide.  She  turned 
on  her  tracks  amid  these  mazes  hke  a  pursued  and 
panting  hare  which  ends  by  faUing  exhausted. 
She  felt  an  actual  sense  of  pain  on  hearing  Mile. 
Hacquin,  the  professor  of  psychology,  assert,  in 
one  of  her  first  lessons,  that  morality  should  be 
entirely  independent  of  all  religious  basis.  She 
revolted  at  this  conclusion  and  during  the  recrea- 
tion hour  that  followed  the  class,  she  went  bravely, 
for  hei's  was  the  nervous  courage  that  cannot 
brook  delay,  to  expose  her  doubts  to  the  pro- 
fessor. "I  was  expecting  j^ou,"  said  Mile.  Hac- 
quin. "I  saw  by  the  knitting  of  your  brows  that 
I  had  surprised  and  possibly  pained  you." 

This  preceptress,  a  lean,  spare  person,  who 
veiled  her  irony  under  a  caressing  manner,  pos- 
sessed the  art  of  calming  rather  than  confuting 
her  opponent,  lea\4ng  the  arguments  she  did  not 
wish  to  attack  openly  in  a  mid-region  of  vague- 
ness and  uncertainty.  She  thus  destroyed  in- 
sidiously, counting  on  the  gradual  crumbling 
away  of  those  ancient  edifices  of  thought  which 
were  no  longer  kept  in  repair.  And  so  it  hap- 
pened almost  invariably.  Her  pupils  lost  hold 
on  the  faith,  often  uncertain  and  barely  con- 
scious, with  which  they  entered  school.  In 
exchange  they  adopted  the  views  of  Mile.  Hac- 
quin, shallow  views  on  the  whole,  though  dressed 
out  in  a  specious  affirmative  guise,  forming  a 
system  which  seemed  at  first  sight  to  be  sup- 
ported by  reason.  But  on  being  subjected  to  the 
slightest  practical  test — as  those  of  her  pupils 
discovered  who  still  recalled  their  teacher's  les- 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  61 

sons — this  system  of  ethics  proved  of  no  real 
help  in  the  exigencies  of  life,  this  wisdom  lacked 
the  power  to  direct  or  to  console. 

Davidee  Birot  resigned  herself  like  the  others, 
though  with  more  reluctance,  to  calHng  God  the 
Unknowable.  She  suffered  at  feehng  herself 
bereft  of  support  and  love,  gazing  up  into  an 
empty  sky,  with  no  invisible  protection  above  her, 
no  Judge  to  whom  she  could  appeal  for  laws  of 
perfection  and  beauty  in  the  inward  life,  no 
Redeemer,  no  resource  in  the  hour  of  death.  Like 
the  others,  she  noted  down  with  care  and  reduced 
to  formulas  the  contradictory  philosophies  of  all 
the  modern  and  most  of  the  ancient  sceptics,  and 
she  strove  to  find  m  their  theories  repose  for  her 
soul.  This  vain  attempt  wearied  her,  but  at 
least  she  never  relinquished  it.  Many  of  her 
companions,  who  experienced  none  of  her  mental 
disquiet,  speedily  learned  to  disdain  all  religious 
ideas.  Davidee  could  not  become  a  mocker  Hke 
them,  but  constantly  repeated  to  herself:  "Later 
on  I  will  study,  I  will  find  out." 

What  remote  ancestress  faithful  to  her  rosarj^, 
what  forbears  of  robust  and  sincere  faith,  still 
influenced  this  lonely  mind?  This  intellectual 
loneliness  did  not,  however,  overshadow  her  daily 
fife  nor  prevent  the  yomig  scholar  from  being  gay 
among  her  fellows,  ardent  ^at  all  their  sports, 
their  walks  and  excursions  as'well  as  at  her  studies. 

Birot  exulted  when  Davidee  came  home. 
"Father,"  she  would  say,  "why  do  you  present 
me  to  each  of  your  friends  in  turn,  as  if  I  were  a 
marvel?    I  am  no  such  a  thing,  and  they  have  all 


62  DAVIDEEBIROT 

known  me  from  my  cradle!"  But  in  spite  of  her 
protests,  he  never  failed,  at  each  home-coming, 
to  assemble  his  cronies  in  the  grand  new  dining- 
room.  "Comrades,"  he  would  say,  "here  is  the 
Flower  of  Blandes,  a  girl  who  knows  everything. 
She  can  recite  without  a  mistake  the  names  of 
all  the  kings  of  Egj^^t.  She  knows  what  is  in 
the  earth,  and  in  the  stars,  and  in  the  inside  of  a 
lizard;  she  can  count  up  to  any  number  without 
using  her  fingers,  quicker  than  I  can  strike  a  blow. 
She  is  my  pride!  Comrades,  you  see  in  her  what 
I  should  have  been  if  I  had  had  her  education. 
All  the  labour  of  my  life  has  served  to  produce 
that  dainty  tidbit  there!    Is  she  worth  it?    Eh!" 

"Certainly  she  is,  Birot!  and  3^our  labour  has 
also  enabled  you  to  build  such  a  house  that  there 
is  not  another  to  equal  it  in  Blandes." 

"That's  true,  too,  but  I  am  not  half  as  proud  of 
my  house  as  of  my  daughter.  Come,  David^e, 
stand  up  and  recite  a  fable  to  these  friends. " 

"Oh  no,  papa!  I  am  no  longer  the  age  for 
reciting  fables.    I  am  nineteen,  you  know." 

"Well,  verses  then,  by — ^you  know  who — those 
verses  that  make  one  want  to  cry  when  you  recite 
them  in  your  clear  voice. " 

"'The  Lake'?" 

" '  The  Lake,'  yes ;  now  you  shall  see !  And  you, 
mother,  bring  along  a  bottle  of  that  hqueur  of 
the  Isles." 

And  before  these  heavy  mates  of  his,  while  her 
father  cautiously  poured  the  liqueur,  Davidee 
stood  up  and  recited  Lamartine.  They  listened 
as  they  would  have  hstened  to  a  song,  silent  and 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  63 

a  little  moved,  without  knowing  why,  except  that 
the  human  heart  needs  to  be  lulled  by  some 
rhjrthm  or  other. 

The  mother  meanwhile,  who  was  now  gray- 
haired,  stood  in  the  door-way  to  listen,  and  retired 
as  soon  as  the  applause  broke  out,  as  she  did  not 
like  noise;  and  then  the  careful  housewife,  impa- 
tient for  the  hour  when  these  men  would  leave 
her  clean  house,  which  they  soiled  with  their 
muddy  shoes,  wandered  restlessly  from  parlour 
to  kitchen,  from  chamber  to  chamber,  and  even 
down  to  the  wine-cellar  which  her  husband  had 
confided  to  her  vigilant  care. 

The  mimosa  on  the  south  side  of  the  house  had 
become  a  tree,  while  clumps  of  golden  spindle- 
tree  formed  pyramids  on  the  lawn,  under  the 
planes  and  lindens  which  had  been  so  judiciously 
planted. 

In  the  month  of  October,  1905,  David^e  was 
appointed  assistant  in  a  large  girls'  school  at 
Rochefort-sur-Mer.  She  passed  three  years  there, 
and  at  the  end  of  that  time  received  her  peda- 
gogic diploma  with  honours.  But  her  health  had 
given  out  and  the  physician  who  was  called  in, 
advised  that  the  young  girl  should  be  removed 
to  a  milder  climate  where  she  would  not  be  ex- 
posed to  the  injurious  influences  of  the  sea-air. 
This  was  a  severe  blow  to  her  aged  parents,  but 
they  loved  their  daughter.  Birot,  Mayor  of 
Blandes,  had  but  to  speak  the  word,  and  Davi- 
dee  received  her  promotion  as  assistant  at  Arde- 
sie  in  the  department  of  Maine-et-Loire. 

She  had  been  exercising  her  functions  for  three 


64  DAVIDEEBIROT 

months,  and  had  attained  her  twenty-third  year 
on  the  third  of  the  preceding  January,  when 
Maieul  Jacquet  came  to  hoe  her  garden,  when 
she  learned  of  Phrosine's  fault,  and  the  secret 
trouble  of  Anna  Le  Floch. 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  PLAINS. 

On  the  following  day,  which  was  a  Wednesday, 
Davidee  stood  watching  the  return  of  the  pupils 
who  arrived  in  little  squads  and  were  not  visible 
from  the  court-yard  until  they  had  entered  the 
gate.  They  came  from  the  right  and  left,  keep- 
ing close  under  the  wall,  then-  sabots  not  chcking 
as  usual,  for  the  groimd  was  still  soft  after  the 
night's  fog  and  rain.  She  caught  ghmpses  of 
them  as  they  approached,  through  an  opening 
between  two  pillars;  first  a  child's  slim  legs  thrust 
forward,  then  a  knee,  then  the  whole  httle  figure 
turning  the  corner  of  the  wall.  Each  child,  be- 
fore she  was  well  inside  the  court,  cast  a  com- 
prehensive glance  about  her,  taking  in  the  whole 
scene;  first  her  httle  mates,  then  the  teacher 
on  duty,  and  lastly  the  exact  spot  where  she  could 
slip  in  and  reach  the  covered  play-ground  where 
her  best  friend  was  awaiting  her.  Some  of  the 
pupils,  on  catching  sight  of  Mile.  Da\ddee,  ran 
to  greet  her  with  beaming  faces,  eyes  shining 
with  childish  affection,  innocent  hps  raised  for  a 
kiss  and  a  "  Good-morning,  Ma'm'selle ! "  As  soon 
as  the  kiss  was  given  they  hopped  away  like  birds, 
with  folded  wings  and  half-turns  of  the  neck 
to  see  who  was  watching  them,  and  mingled  with 

6.5 


66  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

the  rest  of  the  flock.  Others  passed  with  a  rapid 
half-curtsy,  bending  only  one  knee;  a  few,  in 
haste  to  resume  their  games  and  chatter,  took  no 
notice  of  the  teacher;  others  still,  who  had  in- 
herited a  spirit  of  insubordination,  observed  her 
slyly  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes,  and  skirted 
the  wall  to  avoid  greeting  her,  pretending  to  look 
for  a  ball  or  to  call  to  some  distant  companion, 
and  when  they  were  well  out  of  her  sight  assuming 
a  self-satisfied,  impertinent  air.  All  played  un- 
consciously the  game  of  their  sex,  their  family, 
and  the  passions  they  had  inherited. 

Davidee  standing  motionless,  with  her  feet  on 
the  wet  sand,  and  a  white  woollen  scarf  thrown 
over  her  head,  was  looking  eagerly,  not  for  a  child 
but  a  woman.  Her  heart  was  beating  fast  as 
each  new  figm'e  appeared  in  the  angle  of  the  wall. 

"Why  has  she  not  come  yet?  She  is  not  often 
late!  The  fire  will  not  be  lighted  in  time;  this 
woman  is  neglecting  her  work  and  it  is  not  sur- 
prising." She  mentally  spoke  of  "this  woman" 
with  an  accent  of  irritation  and  contempt.  She 
tried  to  command  her  features,  to  assume  in 
advance  a  fitting  expression  of  dignified  but  not 
harsh  reproof.  Images  passed  before  her  mind 
which  she  strove  to  banish  and  the  effort  half 
unnerved  her.  The  children  in  the  background 
rattled  their  sabots,  as  they  chased  each  other 
round  the  court,  or  leaned  listlessly  against  the 
pillars  awaiting  the  signal  for  opening  school. 

Suddenly  a  cry  arose.  "Anna  Le  Floch!  Anna 
Le  Floch!  There  she  is!"  And  with  exclama- 
tions of  joy  and  astonishment  twenty  Httle  girls 


DAVID^E   BIROT  67 

rushed  to  surround  a  child  who  was  just  entering, 
and  who  turned  paler  than  before  at  this  tumult, 
responding  merely  by  a  frightened  and  pathetic 
smile.  Anna  Le  Floch,  with  her  faded  tangled 
locks,  her  startled  greenish  eyes,  clad  in  a  gray 
woollen  dress  which  fell  as  straight  and  scant 
over  her  chest  and  hips  as  the  cotta  of  a  choir- 
boy, stood  shyly  with  her  hands  hanging  un- 
responsively  at  her  sides  as  her  companions  at- 
tempted to  grasp  them,  and  clinging  closer  to  her 
mother,  the  tall  Phrosine,  who  held  her  by  the 
shoulders  and  gently  urged  her  forward. 

"Go  child;  you  see  they  are  glad  to  see  you 
again!  Let  her  alone,  the  rest  of  you;  she  is 
weak  still.  Go  in  little  one;  go!"  For  this 
Phrosine  was  a  mother  after  all. 

"Good-morning,  Mademoiselle,"  she  pursued; 
"Fm  afraid  Fm  a  bit  late,  but  she  wanted  to 
come.  You  are  displeased,  I  see,  but  faith!  I 
had  no  carriage  to  bring  her  in."  Davidee  had 
only  repHed  by  a  slight  nod,  and  this  was  why 
Phrosine  had  suddenly  assumed  a  defiant  tone; 
why  she  pushed  her  child  into  the  teacher's  arms 
crying,  "I  had  no  carriage  to  bring  her  in,"  and 
hurried  away  toward  the  school-room. 

The  children  were  soriy  for  Anna  Le  Floch, 
but  they  knew  no  way  of  showing  it  save  by 
embracing  this  Httle  companion,  who  had  not 
been  able  to  join  in  their  games  all  winter.  One 
or  two  rose  on  their  tiptoes  to  kiss  her  pale  cheeks. 
The  others  drew  back  because  "Mademoiselle" 
had  already  passed  one  arm  around  Anna's  waist 
and  was  bending  over  her,  as  they  moved  slowly 


68  DAVIDEEBIROT 

toward  the  school-room,  murmuring  what  seemed 
to  be  words  of  pity,  though  they  could  not  hear 
them.  Anna  with  hard  eyes,  eyes  veiled  by  the 
shadow  of  her  suffering,  looked  before  her  with- 
out seeing  and  made  no  answer.  The  smoke 
was  already  pouring  through  the  iron  pipe,  which 
protruded  from  the  school-room  window. 

When  Phrosine  came  out  again,  half-past 
eight  had  just  struck,  and  the  children  drew  back 
and  looked  up  at  her,  with  her  crown  of  bright 
chestnut  hair  raised  high  above  her  forehead,  and 
the  strong,  grave,  maternal  face,  which  grew  in- 
credibly soft  when  she  addressed  a  good-day  to 
one  of  her  child's  playmates,  and  took  on  the 
expression  of  a  Mater  Dolorosa  when  she  turned 
to  gaze  at  the  pale  face  of  the  child  herself  amidst 
her  ruddy  companions.  She  had  no  aptitude  for 
feigning  and  her  look  continued  sad,  as  if  she  still 
saw  the  little  face,  when  she  turned  to  Davidee 
Birot  and  said: 

■  "Mademoiselle,  take  care  of  her,  will  you? 
Give  her  some  breakfast  here.  She  can  only  eat 
a  few  mouthfuls  of  bread;  she  is  very  ill." 

The  assistant  replied:  "Certainly  I  will  take 
care  of  her. "  Then,  clapping  her  hands,  she  gave 
the  signal  for  the  children  to  enter  the  school- 
room. The  sun  meanwhile  had  risen  higher  yet 
above  the  roof  which  sheltered  the  two  class- 
rooms, above  the  garden,  and  the  three  ancient 
hyacinths  which,  hid  in  a  warm  corner  of  the  yard, 
raised  their  pulpy  stalks  of  pallid  green  matching 
the  shutters,  and  flecked  with  sand  from  the  play- 
ground. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  69 

At  noon  Anna  Le  Floch  had  breakfast  in  the 
kitchen,  with  two  other  pupils  who  paid  Mile. 
Renee  for  their  daily  board.  She  barely  tasted 
the  hot  soup  which  Da\ddee  poured  into  her  plate. 
"Eat  some;  it  will  do  you  good,"  said  her  little 
neighbours,  joggling  her  with  their  elbows. 

She  shook  her  head,  as  one  who  knows  that  her 
complaint  is  past  remedy,  but  turned  thankfully 
toward  the  fire  which  was  blazing  on  the  hearth 
and  held  out  her  transparent  hands  to  warm  them. 
The  head-mistress  and  her  assistant  at  the  fur- 
ther end  of  the  table  were  breakfasting  hurriedly. 

"What  ails  the  child?"  asked  Davidee. 

"She  is  tuberculous  and  rickety,"  murmured 
Mile.  Renee.  "One  of  those  children  who  suffer 
for  the  sins  of  their  fathers." 

"And  who  is  the  father?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"What!  you  have  never  found  out,  in  the  six 
years  you  have  been  here?" 

"No." 

"For  my  part  I  think  she  has  trouble  greater 
than  she  has  strength  to  bear.  Have  you  noticed 
her  eyes,  that  never  look  straight  at  you,  as  if  for 
fear  you  should  read  her  heart?" 

"I  have  always  thought  she  was  a  sly  little 
thing." 

"Her  being  imhappy  would  be  reason  enough 
for  hiding  her  feelings.  I  am  ver>^,  very  sorry  for 
her!" 

"Tell  me.  Mademoiselle,  will  you  look  after  the 
recess  for  me,  as  I  have  some  letters  to  write?" 

Davidee  often  took  charge  during  the  recrea- 


70  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

tion  hour  when  the  children  returned  before  the 
afternoon  lessons,  and  as  many  of  them  hurried 
back  to  play,  she  sometimes  took  part  in  their 
games.  But  to-day  she  merely  watched  them 
from  a  distance  as  one  by  one,  at  a  half-hour  past 
noon,  they  again  turned  the  bend  in  the  road  and 
entered  the  court-yard.  She  had  gone  into  the 
garden  with  Anna  Le  Floch,  and  with  her  arm 
around  the  child's  waist,  was  pacing  slowly  up  and 
down  the  mossy  alley  between  the  box-bordered 
beds. 

It  was  one  of  the  first  mild  days  of  spring  when 
in  the  shelter  of  the  wall  which  cut  off  the  wind, 
the  sun  had  power  to  penetrate  the  limbs  and 
warm  the  chilled  blood. 

In  spite  of  their  gentle  pace,  poor  little  Anna's 
hair  was  moist  from  the  slight  exertion  and  clung 
damply  to  the  child's  thin  temples,  in  straggling 
faded  locks.  At  first  she  tried  to  draw  away  her 
arm  and  go  off  by  herself,  but  a  few  gentle  words 
and  the  sympathy  which  she  began  to  divine 
were  gradually  taming  her.  It  felt  good  to  her 
after  all :  the  warmth  of  the  garden  and  this  gentle 
companion  all  to  herself. 

Anna  Le  Floch  began  to  reahze  fully  that  the 
heart  of  the  young  teacher  was  not  occupied  for 
the  moment  by  any  other  affection  or  thought  or 
interest  than  hers,  and  that  she,  the  sick  child, 
reigned  there  alone.  How  this  thought  inclined 
her  to  confidences!  how  it  relaxed  the  strong  will 
and  broke  through  the  long  habit  of  silence! 
Leaning  one  against  the  other  and  talking  of 
school  and  village  matters,  they  turned  once  more 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  71 

at  the  end  of  the  alley  and  retraced  their  steps, 
with  the  sun  shining  now  on  their  right  cheeks. 
The  laughter  of  the  children  at  their  games  reached 
them  more  faintly  on  the  breeze,  and  they  felt  the 
more  alone  for  these  distant  sounds.  Tears  had 
risen  to  the  child's  eyes,  but  she  felt  almost  happy. 

"Tell  me  if  you  love  me  a  little,  Anna?" 

"Oh,  yes,  dearly." 

"Tell  me  why  you  are  so  sad?  I  would  like  to 
help  you.    Is  it  your  illness  that  makes  you  so?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"What  then?" 

The  little  one  stopped  and  hung  her  head. 
"I  am  grieved,"  she  said. 

"And  what  about,  Anna?" 

"I  do  not  know — about  living,  I  think." 

Anna  felt  Davidee's  arm  press  hers  more  closely 
as  she  spoke  again. 

"It  is  perhaps  because  you  are  longing  to  see 
your  papa?" 

A  trembling  shook  the  frail  httle  body  first,  then 
the  hoarse,  panting  voice  whispered: 

"He  went  away  and  never  came  back." 

"Was  it  long  ago?" 

"Not  this  year,  nor  last,  nor  the  year  before 
that.  I  think  it  was  when  I  was  two  or  three 
months  old,  perhaps  even  less,  and  now  I  am 
twelve. " 

"Twelve  years  seem  long  when  one  has  suffered, 
my  poor  child." 

"Oh,  yes,  but  I  only  wish  that  I  had  no  other 
papa;  and  mamma  has  given  me  one." 

"Does  he  live  with  you?" 


72  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

"Yes,  mornings  and  nights — always.  It  is  only 
at  noon  that  he  does  not  come  home.  He  is  a 
workman  at  the  quarries  up  there." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"He  wants  me  to  love  him,  but  I  do  not  love 
him."  The  startled  green  eyes  w^ere  raised  to 
hers  and  Da\idee  read  in  them  a  deep  instinctive 
childish  aversion.  The  man's  name  was  not 
uttered.  The  little  girl  closed  her  eyes  and  the 
corners  of  her  lips  were  drawn  down  as  she  mm- 
mured:     . 

"I  want  to  kill  myself." 

"What  are  you  saying,  Anna?  You  have  no 
right  to  take  your  own  Ufe.  No  one  has  the 
right." 

"Why  not?" 

The  teacher  drew  herself  up  to  Hsten  to  a  sud- 
den uproar  among  the  children  as  they  chased  a 
poor  terrified  mouse;  then  as  she  resumed  her  walk 
she  noticed  that  the  box-bordered  bed  near  which 
Anna  was  standing  was  the  one  which  had  been 
dug  most  recently.  She  drew  the  lonely,  wretched 
child  further  away,  saying: 

"I  will  be  your  friend  if  you  will  let  me.  I 
will  go  to  see  you  when  you  cannot  come  to  school. 
Whenever  you  want  to  weep  away  your  troubles 
you  shall  weep  on  my  heart.  It  knows  trouble, 
too." 

Anna's  face  had  resumed  its  wild,  shy,  dis- 
trustful look,  and  as  they  were  now  approaching 
the  court-yard,  Davidee  turned  toward  the  school 
with  her. 

The  afternoon  passed  like  so  many  others,  but 


DAVIDEEBIROT  73 

toward  its  close  an  incident  disturbed  the  daily 
routine. 

Each  day,  when  the  lessons  were  over,  Mile. 
Renee  was  in  the  habit  of  repeating  and  expound- 
ing to  the  older  girls  some  moral  maxim ;  an  exer- 
cise which  she  called,  as  she  had  heard  it  called 
in  other  schools,  the  lay-prayer.  She  submitted 
a  list  of  subjects  beforehand  to  the  Primary  In- 
spector and  inscribed  them  in  her  school  diary. 
On  the  previous  day  she  had  enlarged,  with  a 
verbal  facility  which  had  brought  her  credit  with 
her  superiors, upon  the  maxim  "Time  is  money." 
The  note-book  bore  for  to-day's  text:  "Lay- 
prayer:  Alcoholism  is  slow  suicide."  The  five 
and  twenty  pupils  were  listening,  as  they  listened 
to  the  last  stroke  of  the  clock  at  closing  hour; 
putting  away  their  pen-holders  meanwhile,  closing 
their  books,  and  folding  up  their  papers  \\dth  a 
continuous  rustling  noise.  Two  or  three  among 
the  more  intelligent,  however,  were  paying  strict 
attention,  and  Anna  Le  Floch,  the  last  on  the 
rear  bench,  directly  under  a  ray  of  Hght  from 
the  window,  was  listening  with  passionate  inter- 
est. Bending  forward,  with  her  elbows  spread 
apart,  her  hands  supporting  her  cheeks  and  her 
chin  almost  touching  the  desk,  she  showed  merely 
a  face  pale  as  wax,  with  wide  staring  eyes  sur- 
rounded by  dark  circles.  What  was  it  that 
excited  her  and  kept  her  wide-awake  at  the  close 
of  this  exhausting  day?  Did  Mile.  Ren6e  sus- 
pect the  breathless  interest  with  which  her  words 
were  being  followed  by  one  hearer  there,  under  the 
decHning  light  from  the  long  window?    No,  the 


74  DAVIDEEBIROT 

head-teacher  was  near-sighted,  and  having  taken 
off  her  eye-glasses,  could  not  distinguish  Anna's 
face  and  the  anguish  in  the  childish  eyes. 

"The  children  of  alcoholic  parents,"  she  pur- 
sued, "are  often  degenerates,  infirm  and  ill,  mere 
useless  waifs,  and  sometimes  criminals.  We  can 
only  pity  them,  but  what  responsibility  rests  on  the 
parents!  To  die  young  through  the  sins  of  those 
who  have  given  us  life !  I  hope  that  I  may  never 
witness  the  death  of  any  pupil  from  any  such  in- 
herited taint.  It  would  cause  me  too  keen  a  pang 
of  grief.  I  have  often  asked  myself  what  I  should 
do  if  I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  one  of  my  pupils 
by  death;  for,  as  you  know,  I  do  not  beheve  in 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  only  in  the  trans- 
formation of  matter.  If  a  child  of  my  own  were 
to  die,  instead  of  praying  for  her  soul,  w^hich  would 
be  an  idle  task,  I  should  plant  flowers  on  her  grave 
and  inhale  their  perfume." 

At  this  moment  a  shrill  cry  arose:  "Madem- 
oiselle!   Mademoiselle!    Anna  is  dying ! " 

The  whole  class  were  on  their  feet. 

"Mademoiselle,  her  eyes  are  closed!  Mad- 
emoiselle, how  white  she  looks!"  Some  of  the 
children  pulled  wildly  at  the  sleeve  of  their  com- 
panion who  did  not  stir  and  whose  face,  no  longer 
supported  by  her  hands,  lay  forward  on  her  desk, 
her  forehead  resting  on  the  hard  wood.  "She  is 
dead!  oh,  she  is  dead!  She  does  not  hear  us." 
Piercing  cries  echoed  through  the  school-room, 
as  the  head-mistress  rapidly  crossed  it,  and  laid 
Anna's  motionless  figure  at  full  length  on  a  bench, 
while  she  said  in  a  tone  of  authority: 


DAVIDEEBIROT  75 

"She  has  only  fainted;  it  is  nothing!  I  can 
feel  her  heart  beat.  Do  not  be  frightened,  chil- 
dren, but  go  away  quickly  and  make  no  noise! 
Only  call  Mademoiselle  Davidee!  I  promise  you 
that  by  to-morrow  you  shall  see  your  little  school- 
mate again." 

The  children  rapidly  dispersed,  but  each  one 
on  reaching  the  door  paused  a  minute  and  looked 
back  to  see  if  Anna  had  moved.  No,  she  had 
not  stirred,  the  eyes  were  closed  and  the  lips 
parted,  reveahng  her  teeth  which  showed  the 
same  bluish  tint  as  the  hollows  around  her  eyes. 
Davidee  had  come  and,  seating  herself  on  a  stool, 
had  taken  the  child  in  her  arms  and  was  holding 
her  across  her  knees  as  mothers  do  an  infant.  The 
little  head,  which  had  fallen  back,  rested  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  girl  who,  with  her  left  hand,  was 
unfastening  the  neck  of  the  gray  frock. 

"A  little  water.  Mademoiselle;  quickly,  please. " 

Mile.  Renee  hastened  to  dip  her  handkerchief 
at  the  pimap  in  the  court-yard  and  sponge  the 
child's  brow,  but  did  not  succeed  in  restoring 
consciousness. 

"Carry  her  up  and  lay  her  on  my  bed,"  she 
said. 

"  Or  on  mine,  if  you  will  allow  me,"  said  Davidee. 
"  She  has  grown  used  to  me  now  and  may  be  glad 
to  see  me  there  when  she  revives!" 

She  weighed  less  than  a  child  of  six,  the  little 
Le  Floch.  Davidee  lifted  her  without  effort,  but 
with  a  feeling  of  anxiety  and  of  almost  maternal 
possession,  as  she  carried  her  acrossj  the  court 
and  up  the  stairs.     Before  they  had  reached  the 


76  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

chamber,  Anna  opened  her  eyes  and  said  with  dry, 
scarcely  parted  Hps: 

"It  is  over;  let  me  be!  I  want  to  go  home, 
I  want  to  see  mamma!" 

The  head-mistress  was  following,  with  the  child's 
forgotten  sabots  in  her  hand. 

"Carry  her  into  the  kitchen,"  she  said,  "and 
set  her  down  in  a  chair;  she  cannot  go  home  like 
that." 

The  child,  seated  beside  the  hearth  where  the 
brands  were  still  bm-ning,  refused  to  eat  or  drink — 
the  two  popular  remedies — or  even  to  answer  when 
they  spoke  to  her.  She  merely  repeated,  moving 
her  feet  mechanically  on  the  hearth  amid  the 
warm  ashes: 

"I  want  to  go  home.  I  don't  want  to  die 
here!" 

"You  want  to  go  home? — Can  you  walk?" 
asked  Mile.  Renee. 

For  the  first  time  the  child  answered  directly, 
sajdng  "Yes"  in  so  firm  a  tone  that  the  directress 
replied  at  once: 

"Since  you  wish  me  to  leave  her  to  you,  Mad- 
emoiselle, you  may  take  charge  of  her  and  lead 
her  home.  I  do  not  think  there  will  be  any  dan- 
ger.   It  is  not  far." 

Oh,  how  slowly  and  silently  they  moved,  Davi- 
dee  and  httle  Anna,  but  quite  happily,  crossing 
the  court  and  emerging  on  the  highway!  It  was 
half-past  five.  The  sweetness  of  the  close  of  such 
a  day  in  early  spring  none  can  foretell ;  the  wind 
must  have  ceased  blowing,  so  that  the  sun  gives 
forth  a  gentle  warmth,  and  gnats  and  May-flies 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  77 

begin  to  float  in  the  long  unaccustomed  air;  the 
leafless  branches  laden  with  buds  do  not  stir,  for 
the  harsh  gales  are  over  and  the  boughs  drink  in 
the  gold  of  the  sunset,  while  tufts  of  new  grass 
spring  up  amidst  the  stones.  The  Ardesie  land- 
scape had  now  a  pale  charm  of  its  own,  such  as  a 
secret  joy  sometimes  gives  to  a  young  girl  without 
beauty. 

They  were  alone,  the  teacher  and  the  sick  child; 
their  slow  steps  raised  a  cloud  of  dust  which 
turned  to  gold  in  the  sunset  light,  but  before  long 
there  were  three  together  on  the  road  to  the  vil- 
lage of  Eclaterie,  the  first  of  the  hamlets  called  the 
Justices.  How  did  Jeannie  Fete-Dieu  chance  to 
be  there,  at  the  junction  of  the  two  roads?  Who 
had  sent  her?  What  was  she  waiting  for,  leaning 
against  the  wall  of  slate,  her  basket  hanging  on 
her  arm,  her  apron  pockets  stuffed  with  books, 
her  round  cheeks  very  rosy,  her  round  eyes  very 
tranquil,  her  braids  crowned  with  a  blue  and 
white  knitted  beret,  and  her  hands  thrust  into 
darned  woollen  mittens?  No  one  will  ever  know. 
She  advanced  to  meet  her  poor  little  playmate, 
who  was  treading  her  Via  Dolorosa,  and  said, 
addressing  Davidee: 

"Mademoiselle,  grandma  Fete-Dieu  would  be 
very  glad  if  you  would  come  and  see  her  some- 
time; she  has  scalded  herself."  Then  she  took 
Anna  by  the  right  arm  as  Mile.  Birot  was  hold- 
ing her  by  the  left,  and  assuming  that  leave  was 
granted  to  her — the  best  scholar,  the  best  girl  in 
her  class — she  accompanied  the  sick  child  home. 

Her  two  companions  occupied  the  middle  of 


78  DAVIDEEBIROT 

the  narrow  road  and  she  walked  beside  them  in 
the  wheel  ruts,  taking  care  not  to  stumble  lest 
she  should  jar  little  Anna's  arm.  An  occasional 
whitewashed  wall  pierced  by  windows,  which 
were  never  opened,  broke  the  long  ribbon  of  stone 
fence  which  bordered  the  road,  and  here  and 
there  a  peach-tree  showed,  above  the  jagged  edges 
of  the  wall,  its  clusters  of  purphng  stalks. 
"Do  3^ou  not  want  to  rest,  my  child?" 
"No,  Mademoiselle;  I  can  walk  on." 
She  said  no  more,  but  her  eyes  now  sought  the 
long  low  roof,  which  almost  touched  the  ground 
in  a  fine  curve  like  the  hull  of  a  ship.  Soon  one 
could  see  it  plainly,  the  great  roof  of  Phrosine's 
poor  cottage.  A  hedge  bordered  one  side,  and  an 
ancient  fence  of  chestnut  wood  the  other  three 
sides  of  the  small  plot  of  bare  ground  on  which 
the  house  stood,  and  this  shelter  of  the  poor  was 
enclosed  in  the  vast  domain  of  a  market  gardener 
whose  house,  with  its  barn  and  hedge-rows,  could 
be  seen  in  the  distance. 

"I  have  never  been  here  before,"  said  Davidee 
as  she  opened  the  wicket  gate.  She  had  ap- 
proached so  quietly  wdth  the  two  children  that 
even  the  mother  had  not  noticed  their  coming. 
A  last  breath  of  warm  soft  air  was  bending  the 
new  wheat  as  it  gleamed  in  the  rays  of  the  sun 
about  to  set. 

The  sick  child,  with  a  sudden  stiff  movement, 
disengaged  her  left  arm,  threw  it  around  Mile. 
Da\'idee's  neck  and,  with  the  tenderness  of  a 
heart  completely  won,  kissed  the  cheek  turned 
toward  her. 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  79 

Jeannie  Fete-Dieu  had  already  vanished,  as 
Phrosine  stepped  out  of  her  door  and  walked 
along  the  grassy  path  beneath  the  plum-trees  to 
the  garden-gate.  The  anxious  expression  of  her 
face,  as  of  one  continually  questioning  and  an- 
swering herself,  softened  as  she  caught  sight  of 
Anna  in  her  gray  frock,  who  cried  out  quickly: 

"I  am  better,  mamma;   do  not  scold  me." 

"I  will  wager  that  she  has  been  fainting  again, 
hasn't  she.  Mademoiselle?  Oh,  naughty,  naughty 
girl,  come  at  once  and  be  put  to  bed.  I  have  just 
put  on  fresh  sheets  for  you." 

So  sajdng,  Phrosine  took  in  her  arms  the  small 
frail  body,  as  Davidee  had  done  in  the  school- 
room, and  carried  her  into  the  house.  But  her 
head  was  bent  tenderly  over  the  child,  whose  little 
head  she  supported  with  one  hand,  as  she  mur- 
mured words  of  love  and  grief,  this  wild  Phrosine 
of  the  evil  life. 

"I  have  put  fresh  sheets  in  your  little  bed. 
You  will  go  to  sleep  soon,  promise  me!  Look 
there  at  the  fresh  jonquils  that  have  bloomed  for 
you ;  don't  you  think  them  pretty?  "  But  between 
their  eyes  which  looked  into  each  other,  between 
their  souls  which  had  dwelt  so  long  together,  there 
passed  a  secret  dialogue,  an  habitual  one  per- 
haps, for  the  mother  understood  fully  what  her 
child's  sad  eyes  were  asking  of  her;  she  knew  why 
it  was  that  her  tenderness  never  succeeded  in 
consohng  or  melting  the  heart  of  the  sick  child, 
who  did  not  smile  back  at  her  now,  nor  at  the 
fresh  jonquils,  nor  yield  herself  to  the  caressing 
words. 


80  davidEebirot 

The  pale,  drawn  face  of  little  Anna  merely 
turned  toward  the  open  door  with  an  expression 
of  terror;   so  that  the  mother  faltered: 

"No,  he  is  not  there;  do  not  put  on  that  look 
that  grieves  me.  He  has  gone  to  a  meeting  of 
his  mates  near  Bel-Air;  they  are  planning  a  strike, 
so  you  see  he  is  not  here!    I  give  you  my  word. " 

The  little  face  relaxed,  an  expression  of  grati- 
tude, of  imploring  hope,  dawned  in  the  eyes. 
Anna  looked  at  her  mother  with  the  look  she  had 
just  given  her  teacher.  The  mother  entered  the 
house  with  her  little  burden  clasped  to  her  breast, 
and  Davidee  followed  her  into  a  small  room  at 
the  left  of  the  entrance. 

"There,  He  down  for  a  while.  You  have  prom- 
ised me  to  tiy  to  go  to  sleep.  I  am  going  to  make 
you  a  bowl  of  hnden  tea,  very  sweet,  and  that  will 
surely  put  you  to  sleep." 

It  would  have  seemed  to  any  one  hearing  these 
words  that  a  young  mother  was  lulling  her  baby 
to  rest. 

Davidee  meanwhile  was  glancing  around  the 
large  outer  room  which  served  as  Phrosine's 
dwelling-place,  at  its  smoky  ceiling  with  hea\y 
beams,  above  which  the  steep  roof  rose  in  an 
immense  peak;  at  its  yellowish  walls  on  which 
hung  a  looking-glass  and  two  or  three  old  calen- 
dars, such  as  are  sent  as  advertisements,  adorned 
with  smiling  heads  of  women  in  gaudy  colours 
and  very  low-necked  gowns.  Davidee  recalled 
similar  chromos  in  the  white  house  at  Blandes, 
hanging  over  her  father's  writing-table.  A  large 
black-walnut  bedstead  stood  in  one  corner;  the 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  81 

wide  chimney-place,  with  its  hood  standing  far 
out  into  the  room,  must  have  warmed  and  cheered 
numerous  generations.  In  a  niche  hollowed  out  of 
the  thick  walls,  where  formerly  must  have  been 
kept  the  stock  of  rush-lights  and  the  stalks  to 
replenish  them,  hung  a  man's  cap.  Davidee 
turned  away  her  head,  and  at  that  moment 
Phrosine  re-entered. 

"The  child  is  going  to  sleep.  She  refuses  her 
tisane  and  everything  I  offer  her."  Then  care- 
fully closing  the  heavy  oak  door  she  added : 

"Yes,  eveiything.  She  is  very  ill.  I  thank  you. 
Mademoiselle,  for  having  brought  her  home.  It 
isn't  every  one  who  would  have  done  it." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing.  I  should  have  reproached 
myself  if  I  had  not  come.  She  is  my  pupil,  ours 
at  least." 

"And  one  who  loves  you,  I  can  truly  say 
that.  ..." 

"Poor  child!" 

The  young  girl  recalled  vividly  every  word  that 
Mile.  Renee  had  told  her  about  Phrosine,  and  the 
story  rose  between  them  like  a  third  person,  whose 
presence  embarrassed  them  both,  equally  con- 
scious as  they  were  of  this  hostile  witness. 

They  exchanged  formal  words  of  gratitude  and 
sympathy,  feeling  their  hollowness  as  they  uttered 
them.  Davidee's  hand  was  not  held  out  and  her 
glance  avoided  encountering  Phrosine's  because 
of  the  evil  thought  that  stood  between  them. 

"Some  one  has  been  talking  to  you  about  me, 
Mademoiselle.  I  can  see  that,  and  I  saw  it 
already  this  morning."    This  time  their  glances 


82  DAVIDEEBIROT 

met  and  clashed.  Davidee  raised  her  head  Hke 
a  brave  girl  conscious  of  a  pure  motive,  and  said : 

"It  is  true.  I  have  known  of  your  ill-conduct 
since  last  evening." 

"  Well;  let  us  talk  of  it  then,  if  you  are  willing. 
You  need  have  no  fear  of  meeting  him.  I  have 
already  told  the  child  that  he  is  not  here ;  he  will 
not  be  back  before  seven.  You  are  in  the  house  of 
a  woman  who  lives  with  a  man  who  is  not  her  hus- 
band. I  had  no  other  means  of  living.  Why  do 
you  look  at  me  like  that,  as  if  you  were  going  to 
drop?  For  we  have  hidden  nothing.  If  you  will 
consent  to  sit  down  a  few  moments  I  will  explain 
certain  things  to  you  which  you  ought  to  know 
before  judging  me. " 

Davidee  hesitated  a  moment,  then  seated  her- 
self near  the  hearth,  facing  the  window.  Phrosine 
was  in  the  half-light,  but  a  gleam,  nevertheless, 
lighted  up  the  vibrating  green  of  her  eyes  and  the 
flush  on  her  cheeks.  WTiat  passion,  what  power 
of  will,  what  defiance  had  sounded  as  those  words 
flashed  out:  "We  have  hidden  nothing."  Yet 
she  spoke  in  a  restrained  voice  so  as  not  to  be 
audible  in  the  adjoining  room. 

"I  seem  to  you  a  worthless  creature,  no  doubt, 
one  who  sweeps  your  rooms  and  lights  your  fires. " 

"No,  I  assure  you,  you  are  mistaken." 

"One  who  scrubs  the  floors  and  does  the  dirty 
work  for  you,  the  dainty  and  learned.  I  am  not 
of  your  world  and  you  make  me  see  it." 

"Since  I  am  bringing  up  your  daughter  and  the 
daughters  of  all  the  women  in  Ardesie,  what  have 
you  to  reproach  me  with?" 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  S3 

"Your  manner,  which  is  not  the  same  toward 
aU." 

The  young  girl  coloured  and  answered  with 
spirit. 

"Until  last  evening  I  had  only  the  friendliest 
feeling  toward  you.  At  this  moment  all  that  is 
changed.  WTiat  would  you  have?  I  cannot 
control  my  inmost  feelings. 

"One  can  see  that." 

"Why  do  you  not  marry  this  man?" 

"I  should  have  to  be  free  to  do  that." 

"Are  you  not  free?" 

"I  am  married  already." 

"Then  it  is  still  worse.  Let  me  go  now.  I 
came  to  do  you  a  ser\ace,  not  to  discuss  your 
conduct. " 

But  Phrosine  wished  to  speak  again;  there  was 
one  avowal  she  was  bent  on  making. 

"No,  you  have  no  right  to  despise  me,"  she 
said;  "you  do  not  know  what  misery  I  have 
been  through.  I  lived  three  years  with  my  hus- 
band, a  workman  in  the  quarries,  a  carpenter  who 
made  the  beams  to  support  the  galleries.  He 
deserted  me;  he  did  worse,  for  he  robbed  me  of 
my  boy,  whom  I  never  saw  again,  and  I  have 
learned  since  that  he  abandoned  him  to  the  Board 
of  Charity  in  Paris.  That  was  twelve  j^ears  ago. 
Where  is  my  son  now?  WTiere  is  my  husband? 
He  left  me  just  before  the  birth  of  my  baby-girl, 
the  child  you  have  just  brought  back  to  me.  I 
was  left  alone  to  support  us  both.  Well,  I  waited 
three  years  for  his  return,  my  husband's!  Ah,  I 
have  tasted  want,  I  promise  you !    I  have  worked 


84  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

for  a  few  sous  a  day  while  nursing  the  Httle  one. 
When  that  time  was  over  I  could  no  longer  live 
alone,  I  had  no  money  and  no  courage  left.  I 
gave  myself  to  some  one  and  it  was  not  Maieul, 
you  understand.    Who  was  there  to  forbid  it?" 

"But— the  law." 

"Does  it  feed  me,  the  law?" 

"But  customs,  morals — ^you  could " 

"^Vhatcouldldo?" 

"You  could  be  divorced." 

"  What  difference  would  that  make?  One  does 
without  their  permission.  Has  not  every  one  the 
right  to  dispose  of  themselves?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"You  believe  it  is  the  mayor  who  can  permit 
such  things?  You  tell  that  to  the  children !  But 
look  you,  Mademoiselle,  the  law  is  like  customs, 
morals,  and  all  the  rest.  You  can  pay  attention 
to  them  when  you  are  rich,  and  have  the  time,  and 
some  one  in  the  world  who  cares  about  you.  But 
as  for  me,  no  one  cared  about  me.  I  could  do 
what  I  liked — die  even — without  its  troubling  my 
neighbours.  In  fact,  I  had  no  neighbours.  I  was 
living  in  the  Fete-Dieu  house,  just  below  La 
Gravelle — where  he  lodges  now.  Oh,  I  see  that 
I  offend  you  in  speaking  as  I  do.  But  I  am  not 
trying  to  appear  better  than  I  am.  You  have 
the  morals  that  you  wish  to  have — I  have  what 
morals  I  can  have.  Do  not  be  so  hard  on  others; 
you  will  find  many  like  me  when  you  know  Arde- 
sie.  However,  that  is  not  what  I  want  to  explain 
to  you. " 

Davidee  found  no  answer  ready  for  these  moral 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  85 

paradoxes,  uttered  with  such  assurance  by  this 
woman,  and  her  irritation  increased  at  finding 
herself  so  unready  in  defending  a  cause  she  knew 
to  be  right. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  resumed  Phrosine,  "that 
the  Httle  one  hates  him.  He  does  not  know  what 
to  do  to  please  her;  she  will  not  look  at  him  nor 
speak  to  him,  and  I  will  tell  you  truly  how  I  feel: 
this  makes  me  angry  with  her." 

"Your  misconduct  is  killing  her.  Such  things 
have  happened  before." 

"What!  because  I  love  Maieul  Jacquet,  and 
because  I  cannot  live  without  him?  She  is  dying 
for  that?  Mademoiselle,  you  are  hard  on  us  poor 
people,  but  at  least  you  do  not  hide  what  you 
think.  I  do  not  believe  a  child  could  die  of 
that." 

"  I,  on  the  other  hand,  am  sure  of  it,  and  I  can 
understand  it." 

"It  is  true  she  suffers  and  so  do  I,  and  he,  too, 
as  much  as  we.  Look  here,  I  want  to  tell  you 
this!  You  were  astonished  the  other  day  when 
Maieul  offered  to  dig  your  garden." 

"Partly  so,  but  I  thought  it  was  a  kindness  he 
wanted  to  show  me." 

"Oh,  no!  It  was  a  kindness  to  her.  You  do 
not  know  him.  He  has  a  heart  as  tender  as  a 
woman's,  although  he  never  laughs.  He  knew 
that  she  was  fond  of  you,  the  child,  and  he 
thought,  'If  I  give  pleasure  to  the  teacher,  Anna 
will  be  pleased. '  And  he  told  her  about  it  when 
he  came  home  at  night." 

"What  did  she  say?". 


86  DAVIDEEBIROT 

"As  always,  nothing — not  one  word.  She  ate 
her  three  spoonfuls  of  soup  and  asked  to  go  back 
to  bed.  \Vhen  she  is  in  there/'  and  Phrosine 
pointed  to  the  door  of  the  child's  chamber,  ''she 
is  happier;  she  coughs,  she  is  feverish,  she  is  hun- 
gry  and  thirsty,  but  she  never  calls  me;  she  does 
not  live  with  us.  I  assure  you  our  life  is  not  gay, 
and  I  have  had  enough  of  it. " 

The  young  teacher  felt  a  longing  to  open  that 
door  again,  to  bend  over  the  little  bed,  to  embrace 
her  pupil,  and  to  whisper  very  low  in  her  ear: 
"Little  child,  so  touching  in  your  purity,  I  am 
near  you;  you  have  a  true  friend."  But  she 
dared  not;  swift  and  spontaneous  as  were  her 
impulses,  habits  of  discipline  had  already  tem- 
pered her  eager  spirit.  She  asked  herself:  "  Would 
it  not  be  an  imprudence?"  and  she  left  the  house 
with  merely  a  glance  in  the  direction  which  her 
heart  had  taken. 

Outside,  the  twihght  held  sway  over  all  things; 
all  began  to  grow  alike  in  colour — the  shrubs  in 
the  yard,  the  currant  bushes,  the  manure  heaps 
and  piles  of  stones  were  similar  vague  rounded 
masses  a  Httle  paler  along  the  edges.  The  yoimg 
girl  had  passed  before  Phrosine,  down  the  mossy 
path,  and  out  of  the  gate.  An  infinite  silence 
brooded  in  the  sky,  over  the  bare  fields  and  the 
quarry  mounds.  Only  along  the  diverging  roads, 
faint  sounds  dropped  one'by  one  into  the  darkness, 
the  echo  of  footsteps,  the  rumble  of  wheels,  and 
far-off,  indistinct,  dying  voices.  Phrosine  had  ac- 
companied Mile.  Birot  half-way  through  the  little 
avenue  of  plum-trees. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  87 

"If  she  were  to  die — "  she  now  faltered;  "do 
you  beheve  it?" 

"No  one  can  tell.  I  spoke  too  hastily,  in  a 
moment  of  agitation." 

"But  you  think  it  could  happen?  That  my 
little  girl,  my  Anna ?" 

Davidee  realized  that  what  she  was  about  to  say 
was  a  serious  thing,  that  if  she  were  to  repeat  the 
words,  "Yes,  I  beheve  this  grief  might  cause  her 
death,"  what  remained  to  this  woman  of  an  ob- 
scured conscience  might  turn  to  remorse  and  pursue 
its  work,  who  knew  how  far?  With  an  effort  she 
answered:  "Yes."  And  with  this  word  on  her 
lips  she  hurried  away  into  the  twilight.  She  was 
naturally  timid.  The  silence  of  this  road,  which 
she  now  pursued  alone,  terrified  her.  She  caught 
sight  here  and  there  of  a  great  clump  of  ivy,  look- 
ing like  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  man  leaning 
over  the  low  wall.  She  dreaded  hearing  the 
sound  of  footsteps  behind  her.  Why  might  not 
this  Maieul  Jacquet  have  returned  at  the  very 
moment  she  had  parted  from  Phrosine?  He 
would  need  no  long  explanation  to  learn  what  had 
occurred;  Phrosine  would  only  have  to  repeat  a 
few  phrases  uttered  by  the  school-mistress.  Then 
anger  would  seize  him,  he  would  rush  from  the 
house  and  down  the  path  between  the  plum-trees, 
shutting  the  gate  behind  him  with  a  clang,  and 
breaking  into  a  run  as  he  reached  the  highway. 

She  had  gone  as  far  as  the  summit  of  the  first 
abandoned  quarry  of  Champ-Robert  when  she 
heard,  in  fact,  rapid  steps  behind  her,  now  loud, 
now  muffled  by  the  dust,   but   coming  always 


88  DAVIDEEBIROT 

nearer.  There  was  still  a  lingering  light  in  the 
sky;  it  was  impossible,  even  by  leaning  straight 
and  motionless  against  the  slate  wall,  to  escape 
the  notice  of  the  man  who  was  approaching.  And 
this  man  was  Maieul.  She  was  sure  of  it.  Who 
else  would  hasten  thus,  at  this  late  hour  on  a 
March  evening,  when  the  fatigue  of  the  day's 
work  and  the  weight  of  the  foggy  atmosphere 
made  the  limbs  drag?  He  was  approaching  with 
long  strides  and  suddenly  he  began  to  cry  out: 
''Hold  on  there,  lady!  You,  Mademoiselle  the 
school-mistress!" 

She  left  the  middle  of  the  road  and  running 
toward  the  right  stood  in  the  shelter  of  the  wall, 
with  her  arms  hanging  at  her  sides,  and  her  face 
turned  toward  the  figure  just  emerging  from  the 
mist  and  shadow  which  hung  low  above  the  earth; 
her  heart  was  beating  violently. 

"Here,  Mademoiselle!  There  is  no  use  in  hur- 
rying.   I  can  soon  catch  up  with  you!" 

She  did  not  stir;  only  the  tips  of  her  fingers 
clutched  the  stones  to  find  support.  She  fancied 
that  her  white  collar  would  betray  her  at  once, 
even  her  pale  face  and  the  gleam  of  her  eyes, 
which  she  felt  to  be  dilating  in  the  darkness,  and 
she  said  to  herself:  "Since  I  cannot  escape,  I 
will  not  cry  out;  I  will  not  fly,  I  will  face  him." 

He  was  already  close  upon  her,  between  two 
ruts  in  the  road,  swaying  on  his  long  legs,  his  hat 
on  the  back  of  his  head,  his  head  rising  high 
above  the  edge  of  the  opposite  wall.  He  was  sup- 
porting himself  with  a  staff,  and  did  not  see  the  girl 
at  once,  but  as  he  came  to  a  stand-still  ten  paces 


DAVIDEEBIROT  89 

away,  cursing  and  ciying  out:  "Ho,  there,  young 
lady!"  she  crossed  the  road  and  stood  before  him 
saying:  "What  do  you  want  of  me,  Monsieur 
Maieul  Jacquet?" 

He  turned  toward  her. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  calling  out  my  name? 
I  thought  you  more  civil.  You  must  have  been 
drinking,  no  doubt. "  And  as  this  accusation  was 
true,  he  took  off  his  hat  saying. 

"Excuse  me!" 

Then  for  a  moment  he  stood  speechless,  sur- 
prise having  arrested  the  torrent  of  reproaches 
which  he  had  repeated  to  himself  as  he  ran.  The 
words  surged  back  upon  his  mind  one  by  one, 
and  the  hand  which  held  his  hat  began  to  tremble 
with  anger. 

"I  was  passing  by  the  house  just  now,"  he 
began. 

"Not  your  house,"  she  replied. 

"The  house  I  choose  to  call  mine.  I  learned 
that  you  had  brought  the  child  back." 

"Not  your  Child  either.     Did  I  not  do  well?" 

"Oh,  yes,  that  was  well!  I  am  not  reproach- 
ing you  for  that,  but  you  talked  too  much.  Why 
need  you  meddle  with  our  affairs?  WTiy  did  you 
tell  Phrosine  that  the  little  one  might  die?" 

"Because  she  asked  me." 

"You  wish  her  to  drive  me  away  then?  It 
will  be  your  doing  if  she  drives  me  away!"  At 
this  the  school-teacher  forgot  all  conventions 
and  let  her  heart  speak,  as  she,  the  maiden, 
answered : 

"So  much  the  better!" 


90  davidEebirot 

"Ah,  you  wish  her  to  throw  me  off!  You  shall 
repent  saying  that!" 

"It  is  for  you  to  repent,  not  for  me.  You  are 
living  an  evil  life,  you  are  the  lover  of  a  married 
woman!" 

"Who  would  have  died  of  hunger  without  me. " 

"  Give  her  the  wherewithal  to  live,  and  stay  in 
your  own  house,  then  you  can  talk  of  your  charity. 
You  are  driving  a  child  to  despair,  Maieul  Jac- 
quet!  you  are  killing  her  because  she  has  a  sensi- 
tive heart  which  is  worth  a  thousand  times  more 
than  yours;  and  it  is  I,  a  woman,  who  tell 
you  this  out  here  on  the  highway,  because  I  do 
not  fear  you.  You  are  a  coward !  you  know  well 
what  your  duty  is;  it  is  to  live  honourably,  it  is 
to  sacrifice  yourself,  and  you  will  not  do  it !  You 
have  not  even  pity.  You  say  you  love  the 
chHd " 

"I  surely  do!" 

"And  yet  you  do  everything  except  what  her 
poor  aching  heart  asks  of  jou.  You  will  not  part 
from  the  mother,  yourself,  and  j^ou  are  afraid  of 
being  driven  away.  Giant  though  you  are,  you 
seem  to  me  a  poor  creature,  destitute  of  will.  I 
forbid  you  to  follow  me.     Good-night." 

And  so  saying  she  stopped  to  rearrange  the  knit- 
ted scarf  which  she  wore  over  her  shoulders;  care- 
fully Hfted  her  skirt  although  it  was  short,  passed 
calmly  by  Maieul,  and  resumed  her  way  along  the 
middle  of  the  road  to  Ard^sie. 

The  man,  in  spite  of  his  state  of  semi-intoxi- 
cation, had  understood  everything.  The  words 
were  obliged  to  make  a  journey  through  his  brain 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  91 

to  reach  that  part  of  it  which  was  still  clear,  but 
before  the  assistant  had  walked  ten  paces,  he 
called  out: 

"There's  a  little  woman  for  you!"  And  as  she 
was  about  to  disappear  in  the  darkness,  he  called 
again : 

"Tell  me,  young  lady,  where  did  you  learn  your 
morality?" 

She  heard,  but  she  was  already  far  away,  and 
there  was  no  sound  of  footsteps  behind  her  on 
the  road.  The  houses  near  the  school,  on  the 
right  hand,  formed  a  darker  mass  amid  the  twi- 
light shadows,  like  a  rounded  cloud,  similar  to 
those  above,  which,  heavy  with  rain  and  darkness, 
showed  scarcely  a  star  between  their  overlapping 
folds  as  they  were  borne  up  the  valley  of  the 
Loire,  driven  by  a  wind  from  the  ocean.  The 
road  dipped  a  little  as  it  neared  the  school  and 
there  in  the  door- way  stood  the  shadow  of  a  human 
form.  It  detached  itself  from  the  wall,  hesitated, 
came  toward  Davidee. 

"Ah,  is  that  you  at  last.  Mademoiselle?  How 
late  you  are!  I  was  growing  anxious!"  And 
Mile.  Renee  embraced  her  assistant. 

"You  are  heated  and  trembling,"  she  said; 
"what  has  happened  to  you?" 

The  two  school-mistresses  closed  the  court- 
yard door  and  entered  the  kitchen,  where  Davi- 
dee proceeded  to  relate  her  visit  to  the  house 
on  the  Plain;  but  she  said  nothing  of  Maieul 
Jacquet's  pursuit  of  her,  nor  of  their  interview 
on  the  highway.  When  she  had  repeated  some  of 
the  words  she  had  spoken  to  Phrosine: 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Mile.  Renee,  "this  is  a 


92  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

more  serious  story  than  j^ou  are  aware  of.  If  you 
wish  for  peace,  keep  silent.  See  everything  and 
say  nothing.  Take  your  morals  as  a  lesson  to 
be  given  in  class,  but  outside  your  classes  appear 
to  forget  them." 

"I  shall  find  that  very  hard." 

"You  must  take  my  ad\ace.  I  shall  be  sur- 
prised if  this  affair  of  yours  has  no  consequences. " 

"What!  because  I  took  pity  on  a  child?  Be- 
cause I  told  a  woman  she  was  doing  wrong  to  live 
unlawfully  with  one  man  while  married  to  an- 
other?" 

"What  an  expression!  How  you  go  ahead! 
What  difference  does  it  make  to  you?" 

"And  does  it  make  none  to  you?" 

"None  whatever.  It's  a  matter  of  words. 
Morality  is  something  I  teach  in  school,  according 
to  a  changing  programme ;  a  lesson,  like  the  geog- 
raphy of  marine  sand-banks.  That  is  what  the 
Inspector  wants,  and  the  Minister  of  Instruction. 
They  are  the  guardians  of  religion.  It  concerns 
them,  not  me.  My  function  is  merely  to  say 
amen.  But  I  thmk  just  as  I  please  on  these 
questions;  I  live  as  I  think  best,  and  let  other 
people  live  as  they  think  best.  My  poor  little 
assistant,  if  you  set  up  to  have  moral  convictions 
for  those  who  have  none,  if  you  have  principles, 
hide  them  well  or  you  will  be  lost!" 

She  laughed  as  she  said  this,  pleased  to  have 
her  companion  back  again.  Davidee  was  busy 
boiling  water  over  the  alcohol  lamp,  and  made 
no  reply  beyond  uttering  a  few  assenting  phrases, 
suitable  to  a  subordinate. 

"Do  you  think  so?    It  would  be  hard  for  me 


DAVID  fiEBIROT  93 

to  show  complete  indifference;  it  will  take  time, 
I  fear,  but  I  will  try.  If  you  could  only  have 
seen  little  Anna,  so  ill  and  even  more  unhappy! " 

When  she  had  hastily  swallowed  a  cup  of  tea, 
she  wiped  her  eyes,  moistened  by  the  chilly  air 
and  some  lingering  emotion,  and  said: 

"I  shall  want  no  dinner  to-night." 

"What  a  great  child  you  are!" 

"It  is  true  that  I  am  unnerved  by  all  this;  I 
need  to  be  alone," 

Mile.  Renee  gazed  at  her  attentively,  with  her 
chin  lowered,  which  was  a  habit  with  her,  as  she 
added : 

"Alone!  you  have  just  experienced  how  ter- 
ribly alone  you  are.  Well,  good-night !  Have  you 
any  idea  how  pretty  you  look  when  j^ou  are  moved 
and  excited  like  that?" 

The  girl  silently  nodded  good-night  and  went 
upstairs. 

Her  room  was  in  perfect  order;  it  gave  her 
pleasure  to  see  that  the  counterpane  was  spread 
smoothly  over  her  cot-bed,  the  chair  drawn  up 
close  to  her  ink-stained  writing-table,  the  two 
other  chairs  ranged  along  the  wall  on  the  garden 
side,  the  two  ciystal  vases  standing  on  either  end 
of  the  chimney-piece  with  her  alarm-clock  be- 
tween them,  a  neat  bookcase  holding  all  her  books 
on  the  lower  shelves,  and  her  little  ornaments  on 
an  upper  shelf  with  a  copper  balustrade.  She 
did  not  ask  herself  why  she  rejoiced  to  see  all  her 
possessions  in  place  and  forming  a  sort  of  har- 
mony. She  had  a  vague  sensation  of  rescue,  as 
she   set   down   her   lamp   beside   the   inkstand, 


94  DAVIDEEBIROT 

stretched  her  arms,  and  unwound  the  scarf  on 
her  head,  but  did  not  take  it  off,  for  the  window 
on  the  garden  let  in,  at  all  seasons  whether  warm 
or  cold,  a  draught  of  air  which  whistled  or  moaned, 
caressing  or  cutting  her  cheeks. 

"I  am  content  here,"  she  thought;  "this  is 
my  refuge.  Eveiywhere  else  I  encounter  opposi- 
tion and  feel  my  helplessness.  Above  all  what 
corruption!  I  am  enveloped  by  it;  the  far- 
ther I  advance  in  life,  the  more  I  discover.  That 
is  all  I  gain  by  growing  older.  And  there  are 
things  I  do  not  know,  but  seem  to  divine,  which 
terrify  me."  Davidee  looked  at  herself  in  the 
glass  hanging  over  her  clock;  she  saw  an  image 
of  youth,  the  ardent  wilful  face  of  one  who  was 
far  from  having  attained  peace.  Her  thoughts 
turned  to  her  mother,  whom  no  general  ideas, 
no  theories  of  life  formulated  by  her  husband, 
the  quarrj^man,  ever  sufficed  to  move  or  even  to 
interest.  "I  am  the  opposite  of  that,"  she  mur- 
mured. "I  believe  that  it  is  moral  suffering 
more  than  any  other  which  stirs  my  heart  and 
would  destroy  all  happiness  for  me  if  I  felt  it 
near  me  and  could  not  at  least  try  to  heal 
it." 

Her  heavy  masses  of  black  hair,  loosened  by 
the  wind  and  by  her  rapid  motion,  hung  low  over 
her  brows;  she  wound  them  more  closely  round 
her  head,  so  that  they  too  might  be  in  order,  as  she 
wished  everything  about  her  to  be,  and  seating 
herself  at  her  writing-table,  she  opened  a  drawer 
by  the  key  which  she  wore  attached  to  her 
watch-chain,  and  drew  out  a  green  note-book  to 


DAVIDEEBIROT  95 

which  it  was  her  habit  to  confide  her  thoughts 
whenever  she  needed  a  friend. 

This  green  note-book  was  tied  up  with  others 
like  it,  which  she  had  brought  with  her  from  the 
school  at  La  Rochelle,  and  with  a  few  letters  and 
pictures  and  a  spray  of  withered  flowers  fastened 
by  a  ribbon.     She  began  to  write: 

"I  fear  that  this  life  I  have  chosen  is  not  suited 
to  me.  I  feel  myself  ill-fitted  for  the  self-efface- 
ment which  is  prescribed  for  me.  Why  may  I 
not  follow  the  impulse  which  prompts  me  to  help 
wounded  souls,  and  why  may  I  not  judge  them 
when  they  implore  me  to  do  so?  How  Httle  of 
what  I  do  here  is  done  with  all  my  heart,  with  my 
whole  self!  They  wish  to  curb  me.  Just  now, 
when  by  chance  I  spoke  out  freely,  I  was  told  that  I 
had  overstepped  my  province.  I  did  not  go  to 
this  Phrosine's  house  to  surprise  her  secrets;  I 
did  not  question  her.  It  was  she  who  appealed 
to  me  and  I  answ^ered  her  as  my  conscience  bade 
me.  I  felt  myself  like  a  sister  to  Httle  Anna;  in 
her  place  I  should  suffer  as  the  child  does.  To 
see  her  mother  living  an  evil  life,  not  to  respect 
her,  and  yet  be  forced  to  go  on  loving  her;  to  be 
placed  in  the  mother's  heart  lower  than  this  man 
who  has  no  right  to  come  and  share  it,  to  eat 
one's  daily  bread  at  such  a  price !  ah,  I  too  should 
die  of  it  as  she  is  doing!  I  can  never  keep  silent 
before  a  grief  so  natural  and  so  touching.  The 
incredible  thing  is  Phrosine's  assurance.  It 
seems  as  though  for  her  duty  did  not  exist;  that 
she  submits  to  no  authority;  that  in  her  eyes 
poverty  and  her  selfish  love  free  her  from  all  the 


96  DAVIDEEBIROT 

obligations  of  an  honest  woman  and  a  good 
mother." 

Ha^dng  written  these  words,  the  young  girl  laid 
aside  her  pen  and  took  from  the  drawer  a  thick 
blank  book  containing  the  notes  she  had  taken 
from  the  lectures  of  Mile.  Hacquin,  professor  of 
psychology  at  the  normal  school.  "I  must  re- 
view my  ethics  a  little/'  she  said  to  herself,  "since 
I  find  myself  consulted  on  moral  questions  and 
my  views  opposed;"  and  turning  one  page  after 
another,  written  in  a  clear  handwriting,  strong 
and  full  of  individuality,  she  read : 

"There  are  four  classes  of  moral  problems: 
(1)  Metaphysical,  such  as  the  existence  of  God 
and  a  future  life;  (2)  formal  and  abstract,  such  as 
the  question  of  human  happiness;  (3)  actual  and 
social;  (4)  problems  in  casuistics.  (1)  Does  there 
exist  a  Supreme  Being?  "WTiat  is  His  Nature? 
This  is  an  infinitely  abstract  question  remote  from 
human  conduct.  Let  us  eliminate  all  hj'potheses. 
Why  should  we  confound  true  and  necessarj^  ideas, 
such  as  relate  to  morals,  with  purel)""  h}qpothetical 
ones?  Why  establish  a  connection  between  sub- 
jects not  conjoined  by  reason?  This  would  tend 
to  compromise  morality.  If  we  wish  our  ethics  to 
be  sound  we  must  dissociate  them  from  meta- 
physics." 

"Ah,  here  is  what  I  am  looking  for:  Duty — 
morahty  in  society  is  what  the  social  order  exacts 
— How  am  I  to  recognize  that  society  exacts  this 
or  that?  By  the  sanctions  attaching  to  it,  what- 
ever these  may  be,  from  public  opinion  to  effec- 
tive penalties.     Duty  is  the  form  common  to  all 


DAVIDEEBIROT  97 

activif5es,  whether  mdustrial,  economic,  or  hy- 
gienic, which  does  not  undertake  to  reconsider 
indefinitely  the  reasoning  on  points  of  conduct 
verified  once  for  all  by  experience.  Our  duty  is 
merely  our  will  disengaged  from  emotion — Mor- 
ality, in  its  origins,  constitutes  a  social  phenome- 
non. It  is  dependent  on  society,  which  may  decide 
to  reject  certain  of  its  ancient  ordinances." 

Here  Davidee  paused  w4th  a  sudden  mental 
pang.  AMiat!  was  this  all?  Had  she  ruled  her 
life  by  such  doctrines  as  these?  To  do  as  every 
one  about  her  did:  was  this  all  that  was  enjoined 
upon  her!  And  she  had  called  this  morahty,  and 
had  beheved  herself  to  have  a  moral  system?  No, 
it  was  not  so;  she  had  hved  according  to  exam- 
ples of  uprightness  and  of  honour  set  her  by  her 
mother,  by  her  father  even,  by  those  about  her 
whom  she  regarded  as  good.  But  whence  had 
they,  her  secret  patterns,  drawn  their  inspiration? 
They  were  better  than  others  only  because,  in  per- 
plexing situations,  they  had  raised  themselves 
above  ordinary  human  baseness.  With  what  an 
insuflicient  and  unreasonable  doctrine  had  her 
teachers  armed  her!  To  follow  the  weaknesses, 
the  uncertainties  of  others,  of  her  fellow  beings 
who  groped  bhndly,  contradicting  each  other, 
and  too  often  yieldiiig  to  counsels  which  tempted 
them !  To  have  popular  opinion  on  one  side  to- 
day and  against  one  to-morrow,  and  to  find  the 
same  act  approved  yesterday  and  blamable  to- 
day !  What  morality  was  this?  It  seemed  to  the 
girl  as  if  she  had  opened  a  casket  where  she  had 
stored  all  her  fortune  and  had  found  that  her 
treasure  was  gone. 


98  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

She  threw  the  blank  book  back  into  the  drawer 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Mile.  Ren6e 
was  mounting  the  stairs,  the  steps  midway 
creaking,  as  usual,  beneath  her  weight.  Davidee 
feared  for  an  instant  that  the  directress  was  about 
to  enter  and  would  perceive  how  greatly  her 
anxiety,  fatigue,  and  trouble  had  increased.  She 
heard  her  pause  for  a  moment  on  the  landing,  e\i- 
dently  surprised  that  Davidee's  light  was  still  burn- 
ing; then  the  opposite  door  closed  and  the  house 
was  wrapped  in  the  peace  and  harmony  of  night. 

Davidee,  bending  over  the  table,  took  up  her 
pen  again  and  wrote:  "And  what  a  guide  the 
opinion  of  society  would  be  for  one's  inner  life! 
Whsit  a  judge  to  which  to  appeal  w^hen  one's 
inmost  purity  was  wounded!  ^\^lat  certainty 
of  conviction  or  what  consolation  could  it  give 
to  me  or  to  Httle  Anna?  What!  submit  all  my 
thoughts,  my  sadness,  my  dreams  to  the  opinion 
of  others!  How  could  their  judgment  fortify 
me  against  temptation,  ignorant  as  they  must  be 
of  the  force  of  that  temptation,  of  the  motives 
of  the  sin  or  the  victory^?  ^\^lat!  each  soul  to 
be  at  the  mercy  of  all!  Oh,  no,  I  refuse  to  be 
subject  to  the  opinion  of  Ardesie,  of  the  town, 
of  the  world;  to  the  habits,  prejudices,  passions 
of  beings  like  myself;  all  they  can  say  to  me 
is:  'We  who  are  dust,  whirlwind  and  empty 
sound,  we  approve  you  to-day,  free  to  condemn 
when  we  will ! '  I  can  no  longer  understand  how 
Mile.  Hacquin's  lessons  could  have  influenced 
me.  Have  I  ever  directed  a  single  act  of  my  life 
in  accordance  with  them?  I  ask  myself  this 
to-night  for  the  first  time,  and  I  do  not  find  that 


DAVIDEEBIROT  99 

I  have  ever  accorded  them  anything  beyond  the 
assent  of  a  scholar,  whom  the  search  preoccupied 
more  than  the  result.  It  is  chance  which  brought 
me  face  to  face  with  the  most  absolute  unmo- 
rality.  When  I  looked  into  the  depths  of  my  own 
soul,  that  which  is  my  real  principle  of  action, 
of  light  and  energy,  protested  and  took  posses- 
sion of  me.  And  to-night  I  discover  how  sadly 
unprovided  \\ith  weapons  I  should  have  been  if 
Phrosine  on  her  side  had  been  capable  of  reasoning. 
But  indeed  her  manner  of  life  is  in  itself  a  form 
of  reasoning:  she  eludes  the  duties  which  would 
fetter  her,  because  she  sees  no  sufficient  sanction 
for  them.  She  is  not  a  teacher;  she  is  poor,  she 
loves  this  man,  and  she  lives  with  him  and  is 
supported  by  him.  ^Vhat  matters  to  her  the 
opinion  of  others;  and  is  not  the  opinion  of  the 
community  partly  on  her  side?  Her  neighbours 
do  not  all  condemn  her,  and  according  to  the 
doctrines  of  Mile.  Hacquin  this  serv^es  to  justify 
her  morally.  And  alas!  I  who  thought  to  in- 
struct others,  w^hat  assm-ance  can  I  give  them? 
Mile.  Renee  is  right;  I  must  be  prudent.  I  ought 
to  be  so — But  I  cannot!  I  shall  continue  as  I 
have  done,  though  I  feel  myself  so  alone.  I  have 
no  confidence  in  her  who  should  be  my  direc- 
tress. Hers  is  a  supple,  imitative  mind;  a  re- 
ceiver of  ready-made  ideas;  all  are  alike  to  her 
provided  they  have  received  the  official  stamp. 
And  alas!  I  cannot  beheve  her  sincere;  when  she 
kissed  me  to-night  I  was  conscious  of  an  exagger- 
ated warmth  on  her  part  which  was  displeasing  to 
me.     I  am  thrown  into  the  midst  of  perplexities 


100  DAVIDEEBIROT 

such  as  I  could  not  foresee.  To  make  my  way 
through  them,  or  to  conquer  them,  I  have  no  guide 
but  instinct  and  the  examples  of  my  early  child- 
hood. I  have  no  other  lantern  in  the  darkness, 
but  I  shall  go  on  all  the  same.  I  shall  not  change. 
I  will  not  be  silent,  though  it  is  very  hard." 

For  a  while  longer  she  lingered  at  her  desk 
under  the  light  of  her  lamp,  lost  in  thought.  The 
little  incidents  of  the  daj^-  rose  before  her  to  be 
judged  one  by  one.  She  had  no  regrets,  though 
her  mind  was  troubled.  How  should  she  make 
her  way  through  this  drama  which  she  saw  opening 
before  her?  AVhere  was  her  support?  She  real- 
ized fully  that  she,  Davidee,  Phrosine,  Anna, 
and  Maieul  Jacquet  would  meet  again,  that 
other  words  would  pass  between  them,  and  that 
fate  was  about  to  try,  hghtly  it  might  be  or 
harshlj^,  the  solitary  soul,  keeping  its  vigils  on 
the  blue  mounds  of  Ardesie,  now  wi'apped  in 
darkness. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


"FLOWER  0'  THE  BROOM." 

Only  trifling  events  occurred  for  the  next  few 
weeks,  if  the  coming  of  spring  can  be  called  a 
trifling  event. 

Anna  Le  Floch  returned  to  school  the  follow- 
ing Monday,  but  there  was  no  improvement  in 
the  malady  from  which  she  was  suffering.  She 
sat  on  the  playground  during  recess,  some  of  her 
little  school-mates  bringing  out  a  chair  for  her  and 
setting  her  in  it  as  carefully  as  if  she  had  been 
a  doll,  all  chattering  at  once  in  order  to  divert — 
as  they  thought — the  child  who  could  not  play; 
then,  seizing  the  pretext  of  a  ball  that  was  rolling 
away,  or  a  call  from  the  playground,  they  bounded 
off  and  took  pains  to  frohc  more  noisily  than 
ever,  as  if  they  felt  that  they  were  entitled  to 
some  compensation. 

The  sick  child  was  used  to  solitude;  it  neither 
surprised  nor  grieved  her  to  be  left  alone;  but  her 
■^dld,  melancholy  eyes,  which  formerly  avoided 
meeting  those  of  the  teachers,  now  sought  Davi- 
dee's  and  seemed  to  be  trying  to  fill  themselves 
with  her  image,  far  or  near.  An  outsider  might 
have  thought  it  mere  curiosity  which  kept  her 
glances  always  directed  toward  the  young  girl 
who  was  walking  with  the  older  children  or  join- 

101 


102  davidEe  birot 

ing  in  their  games.  Then  of  a  sudden  the  child's 
look  melted  and  grew  tender,  revealing  the  secret 
of  her  silent  heart. 

Davidee  suspected  little  of  this.  She  saw 
Phrosine  daily;  they  were  obhged  to  greet  each 
other  because  they  both  served  under  the  same 
superior,  and  in  the  same  school,  but  they  never 
exchanged  a  word. 

Mile.  Renee,  on  the  contrary,  had  growTi  so 
expansive  as  to  appear  benevolent.  She  was 
now  entertaining  hopes  of  advancement,  having 
heard  rumours,  at  a  teacher's  reunion,  leading 
her  to  anticipate  a  speedy  change  of  residence, 
even  a  possible  post  in  town. 

The  Primary  Inspector  had  not  pronounced 
the  word  "town,"  but  it  was  easy  thus  to  inter- 
pret the  flattering  allusions  he  had  made  to  Mile. 
Desforges.  To  leave  Ardesie,  no  longer  to  vege- 
tate, as  she  expressed  it,  no  longer  to  teach  the 
children  of  the  poor,  or  of  "savages" — this  was 
another  of  her  favourite  expressions — but  to  live 
in  the  society  of  small  functionaries  and  shop- 
keepers, to  pay  and  receive  visits,  to  walk  once 
more  on  pavements;  these  were  the  joys  to  which 
she  aspired  with  an  intensity  of  longing  as  to 
eternal  bliss.  To  obtain  them  there  was  nothing 
she  was  not  prepared  to  do.  She  had  persuaded 
herself,  moreover,  that  her  merits  had  long  over- 
flowed the  measure,  and  no  longer  opened  a 
letter  without  expecting  it  to  contain  the  looked- 
for  promotion. 

"I  will  not  forget  you,^^  she  said  to  her  assist- 
ant;  "I  consider  you  far  too  intelUgent  and,  let 


DAVIDEEBIROT  103 

me  add,  too  pretty  and  attractive  to  be  banished 
forever  to  this  desert." 

''I  assure  you,"  replied  Davidee,  "that  I  am 
a  very  home-keeping  person.  I  have  already  taken 
root  here  in  Ardesie." 

Maieul  Jacquet  had  not  taken  his  revenge  as 
he  had  threatened  to  do.  He  had  never  been 
seen  again  at  the  school  or  even  passing  its  door. 
A  countrywoman,  who  brought  her  Httle  girl  to 
school  each  day,  said  to  Davidee  one  morning: 

"It  is  queer,  I  used  to  meet  that  big  Rit-Dur 
so  often,  on  his  way  to  his  work,  and  now  I  never 
see  him.  He  must  have  changed  his  hours  or 
his  road." 

This  was  the  last  day  before  the  spring  vaca- 
tion. On  the  following  morning  Davidee  started 
for  Blandes  to  spend  her  Easter  hoHdays  there, 
as  had  been  her  unfailing  custom  for  the  past 
five  years.  She  found  her  father  grown  feebler, 
but  more  imperious  and  fuller  of  whims  than 
ever;  her  mother  was  aging  too,  but  the  fine 
new  house,  which  was  the  envy  of  the  entire  vil- 
lage, bore  no  other  mark  of  the  winters  it  had 
already  passed  through  than  the  streaks  of  green- 
ish mould,  Hke  slender  swords  or  iris-stalks,  now 
staining  its  white  foundation-stones.  For  the 
first  time  Davidee  talked  with  her  mother  on 
other  subjects  than  the  weather,  the  house-keep- 
ing, the  difficulty  of  finding  a  servant,  or  the 
unceasing  rivalries  which  were  now  springing 
up  against  Birot's  fortune,  his  power  and  his  rude 
authority,  rivalries  which  Birot,  with  a  turn  of 
his  hand,  crushed  one  by  one.    Her  mother  had 


104  DAVIDEEBIROT 

no  longer  any  scruples  about  relating  to  her 
daughter  the  latest  scandal  current  in  Blandes. 
This  time  it  was  the  story  of  a  young  wife  de- 
serted by  her  husband  who  had  eloped  with 
another  woman. 

"How  ugly  it  all  is!"  exclaimed  Madame  Birot. 

"There  are  plenty  of  others  who  do  the  same!" 

"What  are  you  saying,  child?  Do  you  coun- 
tenance such  actions?  If  all  Blandes  were  to 
justify  that  woman  I  should  blame  her  all  the 
more — I  say  she  is  a  hussy!" 

"It  pleases  me  to  hear  you  say  that,  mamma; 
it  is  a  very  big  word  for  you." 

"Yes,  a  hussy! — and  I  may  tell  you  that  I  was 
once  pretty  and  young  too,  and  of  a  fine  slim 
figure  like  her,"  and  as  she  spoke  Madame  Birot 
complacently  smoothed  out  the  folds  of  her  skirt. 
"I  was  looked  at,  too,  and  listened  to  the  music 
of  words  like  those  in  the  verses  you  recite. 
But,  thank  Heaven!  I  have  not  a  single  lawless 
thought  to  reproach  myself  with." 

"Because  you  are  the  best  of  women,  and  per- 
haps because  you  never  were  in  love." 

"Oh,  yes,  child,  I  was  in  love  with  yoiu-  father, 
as  much  as  any  one  could  be  in  love  with  a  man 
who  is  disputing  all  the  time!" 

"I  mean  to  say  you  never  loved  any  one  else." 

"Are  you  crazy?  That  would  have  been  a  nice 
business  indeed!" 

"But  what  deterred  you,  mamma,  without  relig- 
ion as  you  profess  to  be?" 

"Without  religion,  child!  But  I  have  a  little, 
as  much  as  your  father  permits  me   to  have. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  105 

That  is  not  much  to  be  sure!  But  one  does  not 
need  to  be  pious  in  order  to  be  faithful  to  one's 
duties.    There  is " 

"What  is  there,  mother?" 

"There  is  honour,  child." 

"Oh,  poor  mamma!  I  have  seen  people  who 
thought  that  honour  commanded  them  not  to 
give  up  the  woman  they  loved,  whether  it  were 
a  lawful  love  or  not.  We  can  always  make  words 
serve  our  wishes,  you  see.  The  important,  the 
vital  thing  is  to  know  their  true  meaning.  Men 
put  into  them  whatever  they  wish,  and  so  do 
women." 

Madame  Birot,  who  did  not  feel  herself  equipped 
for  abstract  discussions,  folded  her  daughter  in 
her  arms,  exclaiming  passionately: 

"You  see  many  wretched  things  in  your  pro- 
fession, my  poor  child !  I  suspected  it,  and  longed 
to  keep  you  near  me,  but  you  would  not  stay. 
Tell  me  the  truth,  is  your  heart  so  sore?" 

"No,  mamma;  I  fear  it  is  my  mind." 

Madame  Birot  did  not  seek  far  for  an  answer 
to  this;  it  sprang  at  once  from  her  mother's  heart, 
from  that  dream  which  they  all  cherish  for  their 
daughters,  as  she  said  softly: 

"Why  do  you  not  marry?" 

After  that  there  was  no  longer  any  discussion 
between  them  of  general  ideas  or  theories  of 
morality. 

Spring  had  come  at  last.  When  Davidee  re- 
turned to  Ardesie,  it  had  already  tinged  the  sky, 
which  is  always  first  to  catch  the  radiance,  and 
was  now  spreading  its  verdure  over  the  poorest 


106  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

clods  of  earth.  Even  the  slate  had  felt  a  touch 
of  spring,  and  warmed  in  the  sun,  which  set  the 
air  dancing  along  the  mounds,  it  flung  back  the 
rays  as  they  fell,  till  the  slopes  appeared  like  cas- 
cades of  slate;  such  life  did  the  sun  give  to 
them,  that  scales  of  every  colour  of  the  rain- 
bow shimmered  along  the  stone.  From  out  of 
the  banks  of  moss,  which  had  swelled  in  the  win- 
ter's rain,  sprang  tall,  slender  stalks,  gilded  at 
their  tips.  The  willows  raised  their  tufts  of 
green  in  the  old  quarry-pits.  In  the  hollows 
where  the  soil  had  not  been  buried  under  the 
debris  of  the  quarries,  the  little  cottage  gardens, 
encircled  by  their  blue  walls,  spread  out  to  the 
light  their  neatly  raked  beds,  their  well-pruned 
trees  and  rows  of  currant  bushes,  the  tulips  and 
gillyflowers  before  the  doors.  There  was  no 
morning  without  the  song  of  the  blackbird  nor 
night  without  the  nightingale.  But  above  all, 
the  broom  blossoms  had  burst  the  bud  and  sprin- 
kled the  whole  blue  landscape  with  gold,  so  that 
the  very  stones  seemed  to  rejoice.  The  broom 
was  triumphant  everywhere,  over  slopes  and  pla- 
teaus and  bramble  patches,  over  all  the  waste 
places  where  the  soil  was  buried  beneath  heaps 
of  shattered  stone.  It  sprang  in  the  thinnest 
layer  of  dust,  and  was  wrapt  in  the  warm  in- 
cense from  the  earth.  Its  hour  came  early  for 
bearing  pale  buds  on  its  brushlike  stems,  spread- 
ing yellow  sails  along  its  branches,  and  opening 
to  the  air  all  the  treasures  of  its  fragrance.  How 
generously  it  responded  to  the  spring  breezes 
that  embalmed  it!    With  primroses  and  a  little 


DAVIDEEBIROT  107 

hawthorn  and  the  spearmint  stems  still  tender 
and  half-hidden  in  the  grass,  it  composed  the 
divine  perfume  of  early  spring.  The  broom  was 
hiding  the  desert  which  man  had  made — it  was 
around  the  most  ancient  quarry-pits,  between  the 
enormous  hollows,  half-filled  with  water,  that  the 
golden  gorse  flourished  most  profusely,  and  there 
it  was  that  Maieul  Jacquet  dwelt. 

His  house.  La  Gravelle,  built  along  the  edge 
of  an  embankment,  was  flanked  on  the  right  by 
a  paviHon,  crowned  with  a  belvedere;  or  to  speak 
more  accurately,  the  old  master-mason,  who  built 
the  pavilion,  in  order  to  divide  it  into  two  stories, 
had  added  to  the  eastern  fagade  an  outside 
staircase,  winding  around  the  building,  and  ter- 
minating on  the  south  front  in  an  aerial  loggia 
with  a  projecting  roof.  Had  the  dwelling  once 
belonged  to  some  noble  family?  So  the  tra- 
dition ran,  among  the  quarry^men.  It  was  now 
occupied  by  humble  tenants  only — a  couple  of 
Breton  famiHes  who  shared  the  lower  floor  and 
the  slate-cutter,  Maieul  Rit-Dur,  to  whom  be- 
longed the  stone  staircase  and  two  rooms  in  the 
paviHon,  with  long  wide  windows.  All  the  win- 
dows and  doors  of  La  Gravelle  opened  toward 
the  south  and  commanded  a  broad  view.  It 
dominated,  hke  a  Hght-house,  the  whole  slate- 
country  and  the  sloping  shores  of  the  Loire,  where 
the  smoke  from  the  workshops  sweeps  down  with 
the  morning  fogs.  A  few  feet  further  back,  on  an 
embankment  of  the  same  period,  stood  another 
house,  far  less  imposing,  which  was  inhabited  by 
grandmother  Fete-Dieu,  and  further  still  were  the 
pits  of  La  Gravelle  and  La  Grenadiere. 


108  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

Nowhere  in  the  commune  of  Ardesie  had  nat- 
ure resumed  such  complete  sway  as  over  the 
abandoned  mounds  around  La  Gravelle.  Between 
Maieul's  house  and  that  of  good  Mere  Fete- 
Dieu,  it  was  all  one  golden  garden.  The  steep 
slopes  leading  up  to  La  Gravelle,  the  footpath 
below,  the  billowy  mounds  where  the  traces  of 
man's  labour  were  still  discernible,  were  all  clothed 
in  broom  and  its  sprays  were  all  of  living  gold. 
The  edges  of  the  twin  pits  of  "The  Rabbits" 
also  wore  a  golden  fringe,  and  shafts  of  broom 
buried  themselves  like  rockets  amidst  the  reviv- 
ing verdure  of  thorn  and  thicket.  All  this  soil, 
so  excavated  and  overturned  that  it  rang  hollow 
beneath  the  tread,  displayed  its  glory  before  the 
richer,  deeper  earth,  hardly  mellowed  yet  by  the 
sun's  rays,  and  the  traveller  through  these  paths 
breathed  an  atmosphere  of  joy. 

It  was  thus  that  Davidee  felt  on  a  late  Thurs- 
day in  April,  the  second  after  Easter,  as  she  ap- 
proached the  hollow  of  La  Grenadiere,  where  a 
woman  was  busy  washing,  bending  over  the  edge 
of  a  plank  set  amidst  the  reeds.  She  followed 
the  shore  of  the  pond,  listening  to  the  sound 
of  water  gurgling  through  the  sluice-ways  and 
losing  itself  beneath  low  branches;  then  she 
climbed  a  steep  incHne  and  beheld  before  her  the 
pavilion  of  La  Gravelle,  rising  in  the  hght  a  few 
hundred  yards  ahead,  and  the  carpet  of  golden 
broom  sloping  down  from  the  spot  where  she 
stood;  and  at  that  moment  the  breeze,  which  at 
times  seemed  to  swing  and  sway  its  perfumes  like 
incense,  enveloped  her  in  its  languid  breath. 

."Ah,  what  a  delight!"  she  said;  "all  spring 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  109 

is  in  the  air!  If  only  it  could  blow  like  this 
through  the  school  and  through  my  heart!" 

She  was  on  her  way  to  see  old  Mere  Fete-Dieu 
as  she  had  promised  to  do  before  the  vacation. 
But  her  thoughts  turned  for  a  moment  to  Maieul 
Jacquet. 

"He  passes  for  a  maker  of  songs  and  a  fine 
singer.  He  would  do  far  better  to  live  decently 
and  speak  civilly  to  those  he  meets!  A\Tiat  con- 
duct, to  pursue  me  along  the  road,  shouting  my 
name!  I  have  met  Phrosine  twenty  times  since 
then  and  she  has  never  spoken  to  me;  he  has 
changed  his  road  home  from  his  work;  and  that 
is  all  the  influence  I  have  gained  over  either  of 
them." 

She  remembered  that  it  was  a  week  since  she 
had  seen  little  Anna  and  she  only  knew,  as  every 
one  did,  that  the  child  had  grown  worse  and  no 
longer  left  the  garden. 

Following  the  track,  which  wound  across  a  past- 
ure, at  times  well-trodden  and  then  losing  itself 
in  the  high  grass,  she  was  soon  in  the  midst  of  a 
sea  of  broom.  Turning  to  the  right  and  climb- 
ing a  steep  bank  through  the  blossoming  stalks, 
which  brushed  her  face  as  she  advanced,  she 
caught  sight  of  a  long  spreading  roof  above  low 
walls.  She  knocked  at  the  door  and  a  youthful 
voice  bade  her  enter.  Coming  toward  her  in  the 
dim  light  of  the  room,  she  saw  Httle  Jeannie  of 
the  round  eyes,  who  beamed  at  her  and  said: 

"  Oh,  how  kind  of  you  to  come !  Grandmamma 
is  there.     She  is  better,  you  know." 

"One  always  grows  better  as  one  gets  near 


no  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

the  end  of  the  road!"  said  a  feeble  voice  from 
the  back  of  the  room,  where,  under  the  green 
baize  curtains  of  the  bed,  lay  the  old  half- 
paralyzed  grandmother.  One  of  her  eyes  was 
still  bright  and  keen,  while  the  other  was  partly 
clouded.  With  her  good  eye  she  gazed  at  Davi- 
dee  Birot  and  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  the 
sight,  as  if  she  were  gazing  at  a  spray  of  broom, 
a  rose  geranium  opening  to  the  sun  in  the  cottage 
window,  or  a  sunbeam  entering  the  poor  room. 
Her  look  was  equally  kind,  whether  turned  on  her 
beloved  Jeannie  or  raised  to  the  young  teacher, 
who  bent  over  her  with  a  smile  and  said: 

''The  spring  is  so  fine,  you  will  soon  be  better, 
Mere  Fete-Dieu!" 

But  the  good  woman  was  pursuing  another 
train  of  thought : 

"Are  you,  then,  the  new  school-mistress?" 

"Yes,  I  have  been  here  only  seven  months." 

"She  has  told  me  already  hov/  kind  you  are. 
They  are  sharp-sighted,  these  little  ones,  they 
can  read  the  heart." 

"But  I  assure  you.  Mere  Fete-Dieu,  that  my 
heart  is  no  better  than  others." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is!  Your  eyes  answer  for  that — 
they  look  so  young  and  so  eager  to  do  right. 
Sit  down.  Mademoiselle.  What  are  you  think- 
ing of,  you  naughty  little  Jeannie,  that  you  do 
not  bring  a  chair  for  the  young  lady?"  and  the  old 
woman  began  to  talk,  telling  her  stor}%  to  which 
the  younger  one  listened,  at  first  out  of  kindness, 
then  with  greater  interest,  for  Mere  Fete-Dieu, 
after  retailing  a  string  of  dates  and  names,  of 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  111 

births  and  deaths,  and  the  details  of  her  latest 
trial,  the  stroke  which  had  rendered  her  helpless 
for  months,  began  to  return  thanks  for  her  seventy 
years  of  life,  while  permitting  herself  only  the 
slightest  lament  over  her  present  sufferings. 

"I  am  not  over  and  above  patient,"  the  good 
woman  said.  "Time  hangs  heavily  when  Jean- 
nie  is  in  school,  but  luckily  the  Breton  women 
from  La  Gravelle  come  to  see  me  sometimes, 
as  you  have  done.  I  am  completing  my  time 
and  winning  my  reward.  God  is  the  end  of  all 
my  pains."  Then,  growing  a  trifle  weary,  she 
closed  her  eyes,  and  seemed  to  lose  all  notion 
of  time.  On  feeling  a  keener  pang  of  suffering, 
she  opened  them  again,  but  without  seeing  her 
visitor,  whom  she  had  already  forgotten.  Gaz- 
ing up  at  the  smoky  rafters  above  her  head  and 
clasping  her  one  serviceable  hand  in  the  other 
which  no  longer  obeyed  her  will,  she  murmured: 

"My  God,  I  suffer  much,  but  if  thou  wiliest, 
I  can  suffer  more,"  adding  below  her  breath, 
"just  a  little  more." 

The  young  teacher  turned  pale,  feeling  the 
thrill  she  had  often  experienced  on  repeating  to 
her  pupils  the  noble  words  of  some  heroic  man  or 
woman.  She  cast  a  long  gaze  at  the  old  grand- 
mother, who  was  now  dozing,  and  stole  away 
softly,  accompanied  by  Jeannie,  and  with  the 
cat  rubbing  against  her  skirts. 

La  Gravelle  was  directly  opposite,  standing 
high  on  its  mound,  plunging  the  jagged  outline 
of  its  roofs  and  chimneys,  its  walls  and  loggia 
into  the  splendours  of  the  late  afternoon.    But 


112  DAVIDEEBIROT 

it  was  only  the  back  of  the  house  which  was  in 
view,  and  the  facade,  with  all  its  windows  and  vine- 
trellises,  its  Breton  tenants  and  their  children, 
the  whole  teeming  life  of  the  place,  was  suspended 
along  the  other  terrace  above  the  Loire.  Here 
no  sound  was  to  be  heard  save  the  humming  of 
gnats,  drunk  with  the  odours  of  the  broom;  even 
little  Jeannie's  farewell  was  lost  in  their  murmur, 
though  this  served  onty  to  emphasize  the  silence. 

"I  should  be  nicely  caught,"  thought  Davidee, 
"if  Maieul  Jacquet  were  suddenly  to  descend 
the  mound  toward  me!  This  time  I  think  I 
should  be  frightened."  As  her  plan  was  to  re- 
turn by  the  village  of  La  Martinellerie,  she  took 
the  right-hand  track  through  the  broom,  and  was 
about  to  emerge  upon  a  little-frequented  road, 
which  led  in  that  direction,  when  she  saw  con- 
fronting her,  a  little  way  off,  motionless,  and 
evidently  awaiting  her,  the  figure  of  Maieul 
Jacquet. 

The  quarryman  was  in  his  Sunday  clothes: 
a  well-brushed  coat,  shoes  without  nails,  a  double 
chain  across  his  waistcoat  and  a  new  green  tie, 
and  his  moustache  twisted  and  curled  proudly 
upward,  as  if  he  were  on  his  way  to  a  wedding. 
On  catching  sight  of  Davidee,  he  took  off  his  hat 
with  such  an  intimidated  air  that  she  no  longer 
feared  him;  she  merely  thought:  "I  will  pass 
him  with  a  shght  nod  and  he  will  perceive  that  I 
have  a  distinct  remembrance  of  our  last  encounter. 
How  does  he  happen  to  be  here?  Did  he  see  me 
leave  the  school?  His  workshop  is  not  far  dis- 
tant, and  by  climbing  a  wall  or  a  heap  of  stones 


DAVIDEEBIROT  113 

it  might  be  possible  for  the  sharp  eyes  of  a  look- 
out man  like  him  to  see  the  school-house  door. 
He  must  have  made  haste,  taking  the  shortest 
road  while  I  was  loitering  along  by  La  Grena- 
diere,  and  he  would  have  had  time  to  change  his 
clothes  while  I  was  visiting  Mere  Fete-Dieu. 
But  what  can  he  have  to  say  to  me?  Does  he 
think  it  sufficient  to  plant  himself  in  my  path 
to  make  me  forget  his  disrespectful  conduct  of 
the  other  day?" 

She  had  time  for  these  reflections,  as  she  had 
relaxed  her  steps  in  order  not  to  appear  alarmed. 
She  advanced  slowly  with  eyes  partly  lowered 
to  escape  the  dazzling  light,  but  on  glancing  up 
to  scan  the  road  before  her,  she  saw  the  work- 
ingman  standing  beside  the  last  stalk  of  broom, 
holding  his  hat  before  him  with  both  his  hands. 
He  looked  so  droll  in  this  humble  attitude  that 
she  smiled  involuntarily,  and  as  she  resumed  her 
somewhat  studied  air  of  dignity,  Maieul  ad- 
dressed her: 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "I  have  not  behaved 
well  toward  you!" 

"That  is  true,"  she  replied,  without  pausing 
in  her  walk. 

"I  was  ill-mannered.  I  did  not  know  what  I 
was  doing,  and  I  am  ashamed  of  myself." 

"I  thank  you  for  telling  me  so.  Monsieur 
Maieul,"  and  as  she  spoke  she  continued  to  walk 
on,  past  the  fields  of  broom  and  the  man  stand- 
ing there. 

"And  yet  there  is  not  a  single  person  in  the 
whole  parish,"  he  used  the  old-fashioned  word 


114  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

because  he  was  speaking  from  his  heart,  "not 
one  whom  I  should  be  so  sorry  to  give  pain  to." 

Davidee  stopped  at  this. 

"Why  so,  Monsieur  Maieul?"  she  asked. 

"Because  you  gave  me  a  piece  of  your  mind 
and  right  soundly  too." 

"And  I  have  been  thinking  that  I  made  a  mis- 
take in  being  so  frank  with  you." 

"Oh,  no,  far  from  it!" 

"But  of  what  good  was  it,  since  nothing  is 
changed?"  And  as  she  spoke  she  looked  straight 
into  his  eyes,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  a  slightly 
haughty  air. 

He  reflected  a  moment  before  replying.  "To 
change  is  harder  than  to  speak  and  to  confess 
that  you  were  right.  But,  all  the  same,  if  I 
were  to  change ?" 

He  did  not  end  his  sentence,  but  for  the  first 
time  he  ventured  to  look  directly  into  the  face 
of  the  slight  proud  girl  for  whom  he  had  been 
waiting  for  the  last  half-hour  amidst  the  broom. 
And  she  knew  well  what  he  was  trying  to  say. 

"Then  I  should  respect  you  more,"  she  said. 
And  on  the  strength  of  these  words  which,  though 
severe  enough,  were  not  an  actual  condemna- 
tion, he  began  to  walk  beside  her,  but  a  little  in 
the  rear;  and  while  she  descended  the  slope,  turn- 
ing her  head  away  slightly  so  that  she  might  not 
appear  to  be  paying  too  much  attention  to  this 
man's  words,  he  said,  lifting  his  eyes  above  her 
head  and  above  Ardesie  as  it  lay  before  them, 
as  if  he  were  addressing  the  whole  valley: 

"I  have  not  had  an  education  like  you,  Mad- 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  115 

emoiselle.  I  have  had  no  mother,  nor  sister, 
nor  any  one  to  speak  to  me  as  you  have  done, 
of  my  salvation  and  my  paradise." 

"Did  I  speak  of  paradise?" 

"No,  but  no  one  could  mistake  what  you  said. 
I  have  friends  who  live  as  I  do,  and  neighbours 
who  do  not  care.  The  inspector  at  the  quarry 
does  not  trouble  his  head  about  my  doings  nor 
the  director  either.  There's  none  but  the  cure 
who  would  speak  to  me  like  you,  and  him  I  do 
not  know." 

Davidee  made  no  reply,  and  as  they  had  now 
reached  the  cross-roads  where  several  old  houses 
stood,  Maieul  hastened  to  add: 

"I  see  plainly  that  it  displeases  you  to  talk 
with  me.  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you.  You 
are  not  so  talkative  as  the  other  day.  But  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  also  that  little  Anna  cries 
for  you.  Do  go  and  see  her.  Mademoiselle!  It 
would  be  better  for  you  not  to  go  in,  but  you 
can  talk  to  her  over  the  hedge." 

They  walked  on  a  few  steps,  then  he  added: 

"Good-by,  for  the  present.  Mademoiselle!" 

"Adieu,  Monsieur  Maieul." 

He  descended  the  road  to  the  left  toward  the 
quarry,  while  she  turned  to  the  right.  Without 
saying  so  to  him,  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
go  at  once  to  the  house  on  the  Plains. 

"Oh!"  she  thought,  as  she  pursued  her  way, 
"how  full  of  consequences  is  every  one  of  our 
acts!  How  far  each  word  we  speak  may  reach! 
Because  of  the  indignation  I  felt,  I  assumed  the 
role  of  a  judge  between  a  mother  and  child  and 


116  DAVIDEEBIROT 

that  mother's  lover,  between  a  tender  heart  Hke 
Anna's,  a  troubled  conscience  like  Maieul's,  and 
a  hostile  spirit  like  Phrosine's.  Even  if  I  wished 
it,  I  could  not  arrest  the  changes  I  have  caused, 
the  sources  perhaps  of  good,  perhaps  of  mere 
useless  trouble,  which  I  have  opened  up.  And 
I  do  not  know  why  I  showed  such  severity.  I 
have  acted  as  my  mother  would  have  done,  and 
I  can  only  defend  myself  by  sajdng:  'It  is  my 
instinct  which  acted,  something  in  me,  stronger 
than  the  lessons  of  my  teachers.  Those  whom 
I  have  ventm-ed  to  reprove  know  better  than  I 
in  what  name  I  have  spoken:  that  of  the  one  and 
only  Judge.'" 

She  felt  herself  a  poor,  helpless  girl.  She 
watched,  as  she  passed  the  low,  broken  waU  of 
the  quarr}^,  the  slate-cutters  at  work  behind  the 
shelter  of  their  wind-breaks.  They  turned  their 
heads  as  she  passed,  the  younger  men  at  least, 
and  those  nearest  her,  and  followed  her  with 
their  e3^es,  exchanging  bantering  words  which 
she  could  not  hear.  The  old  men  were  as  in- 
different to  the  sight  of  her  youth  as  they  were 
to  the  soft  spring  breezes  blowing  through  the 
quarry  from  the  heights  above.  With  her  alert 
step  the  girl  went  her  way,  past  the  line  of  wind- 
breaks rising  against  a  background  of  blue,  where 
the  slate  lay  in  piles  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
and  amidst  them,  the  gangs  of  men  mo^ing 
mechanically,  without  haste,  every  motion  regu- 
lated by  daily  habits  of  labour.  Some  of  them 
had  harsh  faces,  but  for  the  most  part,  they  were 
merely  serious,  few  of  them  reflecting  that  glow 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  117 

of  health,  peace,  and  gayety  which  mocks  at  toil. 
"I  should  like  to  bring  up  your  children  for  you," 
thought  the  girl,  "so  that  they  might  carry  into 
your  poor  homes  a  breath  of  spring,  such  as  we 
inhale  so  gladly  and  without  thought.  I  can 
teach  them  to  read,  but  that  is  for  themselves; 
and  to  write,  and  that  is  for  themselves  too;  but 
when  I  teach  them  to  be  good,  that  is  for  you. 
But  pleasure  speaks  too,  and  how  many  of  them 
could  I  persuade  to  give  up  a  new  hat  or  a  rib- 
bon for  their  parents'  sake?" 

When  she  had  passed  the  sign-board  of  La 
Martinellerie,  Davidee  met  several  of  her  younger 
pupils,  who  gathered  around  her  for  a  moment. 

Some  of  the  mothers,  too,  nodded  a  good-day 
to  her  through  their  closed  windows,  but  she  kept 
on  her  way  through  the  village,  then  across  sev- 
eral fields,  until  she  reached  the  yard  in  which 
Phrosine's  house  stood.  She  softly  approached 
the  hedge-row,  now  in  leaf,  and  showing  here 
and  there,  amid  its  dense  shining  foliage,  a  cluster 
of  white  blossoms.  The  market-gardeners  were 
no  longer  at  work;  a  flock  of  magpies  were  cir- 
cling around  an  owl  perched  upon  a  heap  of  clods, 
the  only  moving  things  on  the  steeply  rising 
slope,  except  for  the  tall  ears  of  w^heat  which 
tossed  and  swayed  at  every  breath  of  wind,  with 
little  shiverings  and  changing  reflections,  as  if 
to  mimic  the  movement  of  flowing  waters.  The 
door  of  the  house  was  closed.  Davidee  won- 
dered for  a  moment  if  Anna  would  appear  lean- 
ing on  Phrosine's  arm,  returning  home  from  a 
walk;  but  as  she  approached  the  wicket  gate  she 


118  davidEebirot 

found  the  sick  child  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge, 
half-recHning  upon  two  chairs,  under  the  shade 
of  a  plum-tree,  with  her  head  resting  on  a  pillow 
and  a  warm  comforter  thrown  over  her  knees. 
She  was  sleeping;  her  face  so  pale  that  one  might 
have  thought  her  dead;  her  respiration  hardly 
stirring  the  worn  bodice,  while  both  little  arms 
fell  limply  at  her  sides,  touching  the  grass.  All 
appearance  of  life  had  quitted  the  frail  form  of 
this  innocent  victim  of  the  sins  of  others.  And 
yet,  as  if  through  the  mazes  of  sleep  souls  could 
signal  to  one  another  and  make  themselves 
known  in  no  uncertain  fashion,  Anna  suddenly 
opened  her  eyes,  her  face  lighted  up,  and  life 
and  joy  reappeared  there  together.  Lifting  her 
hands  slowly,  with  the  movement  of  one  bearing 
a  sheaf,  and  then  clasping  them  together,  the 
child  said: 
"I  was  thinking  of  you." 
"It  was  the  spring  day  that  brought  me," 
Davidee  said. 

The  Uttle  girl  replied,  as  if  indifferent  to  all 
which  interrupted  her  paean  of  love: 

"Yes,  the  day  is  fine,"  then  resumed  in  a  tone 
of  rapture: 

"You  have  come  at  last!  For  days  I  have 
been  expecting  you.  It  was  not  veiy  comfort- 
able on  these  chairs,  but  you  could  not  come 
inside  the  house;  no,  it  was  better  that  you 
should  not  enter  mamma's  house.  I  thought  you 
would  not  want  to  come  in  again,  so  I  begged 
to  be  carried  outside.  The  first  day,  I  did  not 
see  you,  nor  the  second,  nor  the  third,  but  now 


DAVIDEEBIROT  119 

you  are  here!  Don't  be  afraid,  Mademoiselle! 
Mamma  cannot  hear  what  I  am  saying  to  you, 
and  besides,  she  is  very  good  to  me,  now.  Let 
me  look  at  your  hat,  please." 

"Yes,  look!  Is  this  the  way  you  would  hke 
me  to  turn  my  head?  If  I  were  nearer,  I  would 
try  it  on  you." 

"Oh,  no,  you  are  pretty — for  me  it  is  not  worth 
while — "  she  did  not  continue,  but  spoke  as  if 
in  a  dream. 

Davidee  in  the  hope  of  diverting  her,  began 
to  talk  of  the  school,  but  at  the  first  words  Anna's 
brow  darkened,  the  inner  light  withdrew  from 
her  ej^es,  the  clasped  hands  trembled.  It  seemed 
as  if  youth  vanished  from  the  childish  face,  and 
the  soul  of  a  sensitive,  anxious  woman  informed 
the  tin}^  features. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  pleading  voice. 

"What  is  it,  little  one?" 

"I  want  to  know  from  you,  because  you  are 
good,  because  you  come  to  see  me " 

She  hesitated  as  if  oppressed,  the  green  of  her 
eyes  turning  deep  as  the  green  of  sea  waves. 

"Must  I  pray?"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,  chHd." 

"Mademoiselle,  is  there  not  a  good  God?" 

The  girl  felt  a  shudder  pass  through  her,  shak- 
ing the  blackthorn  hedge  on  which  she  leaned, 
as  she  thought:  "Can  I  say  no?  Have  I  the 
right  to  drive  her  to  despair?  Do  I  know,  I,  who 
have  voluntarily  neglected  all  these  things?"  At 
last  she  replied,  using  the  tender  "thou"  uncon- 
sciously because  the  intimate  words  she  spoke 


120  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

seemed  to  require  it,  and  all  inequalities  of  age 
and  condition  had  vanished  between  them. 

"Anna,  dear  little  one,  I  love  you  dearly." 
She  felt  herself  cowardly  and  cruel  for  giving  no 
direct  answer.  The  child  only  replied: 
"I,  too,  Mademoiselle,  love  you  dearly." 
Davidee  hastened  to  add:  "I  will  come  back. 
You  shall  see  me  soon  again.  But  you  must 
promise  me  to  sleep  as  soundly  as  if  I  were  not 
to  come." 

The  pale  face  was  lifted  a  little,  then  fell  back 
amid  the  thin  braids  of  hair. 

"Promise  not  even  to  think  of  me." 
The  Uttle  head  tossed  upon  the  pillow  as  if  to 
say  "no."  And  at  the  same  time  the  lips  parted 
in  a  childish  smile  so  pure,  so  tender,  in  its  re- 
fusal not  to  think  of  her,  that  Davidee  turned 
away  to  hide  her  tears. 

"Good-by,  for  the  present,  darlmg." 
The  hedge  soon  hid  her  from  the  sick  child's 
sight;  the  row  of  plum-trees  and  the  low  roof 
disappeared  behind  the  wall  bordering  the  road. 
Davidee  was  soon  in  Ardesie;  she  found  the  school- 
house  deserted.  Mile.  Desforges  having  gone  to 
spend  her  half-hohday  in  town. 

From  the  Green  Diary. — "  Here  I  am  alone  in  the 
house!  My  window  is  open  upon  the  court- 
yard and  the  perfume  of  the  invisible  broom  is 
brought  in  on  the  breeze.  It  blows  from  the 
mounds  of  La  Gravelle  and  La  Grenadiere.  It 
brings  with  it  the  dust  of  the  roads  and  of  the 
court-yard   trodden  by  children's  feet,  and  the 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  121 

perfume  loses  half  its  sweetness,  as  life  does.  I 
am  troubled  at  finding  myself  so  unequal  to  the 
task  I  have  not  undertaken  voluntarily,  and  which 
grows  constantly  harder  and  more  complex,  driv- 
ing me  to  form  resolutions  and  to  utter  words  for 
which  I  am  ill-prepared.  I  no  longer  fear  the 
vengeance  of  Maieul  Jacquet,  but  I  fear  some- 
thing worse :  a  passion  which  I  have  unwillingly 
aroused  and  which  repels  me.  I  perceived  it  in 
his  look  and  gestures,  in  the  care  he  had  taken 
to  dress  himself  in  his  best,  in  the  spot  he  chose 
to  meet  me  in — far  from  witnesses — in  the  tone 
of  his  voice.  What  an  insult!  To  speak  as  he 
dared  to  do,  to  me  who  knew  the  life  he  leads  and 
with  whom!  And  yet  I  did  not  show  him  fully 
the  indignation  I  felt.  Why  did  I  allow  him  to 
go  on?  How  weak  I  have  shown  myself,  in  spite 
of  an  outward  show  of  strength!  How  Mile. 
Renee  would  scorn  me  if  she  could  know  or  guess 
all!  But  alas,  I  was  far  more  a  coward  when 
little  Anna  questioned  me.  What  she  asked  in- 
cluded everything — the  whole  enigma  of  her 
life  and  mine.  Her  reason  has  grown  in  suffer- 
ing and  sohtude,  she  was  seeking  some  support 
— a  consoler,  a  to-morrow  to  this  life  which  she 
feels  fleeting  from  her — and  she  chose  me  to 
answer  her.  I  was  her  teacher.  Could  it  be 
possible  for  the  teacher  not  to  know  if  there  be 
a  Heaven?  The  child  wished  to  believe  in  order 
to  bear  her  sufferings  better.  She  had  prepared 
her  question ;  she  was  thinking  of  it  while  I  talked 
to  her  of  other  things,  and  she  received  no  answer. 
I  feared  to  say  no,  I  was  not  brave  enough  nor 


122  DAVIDEEBIROT 

pitiful  enough  to  say  yes.  I  told  her  to  pray 
because  that  committed  me  to  nothing.  But 
pray  to  whom?  Before  the  great  trouble  I  gave 
half  the  answer  of  the  Christian  which  I  am  not. 
How  pitiful,  how  contradictory!  but  how  pitiful 
above  all!  Poor  sick  child,  who  thought  you 
had  come  to  a  fountain  and  found  it  dry!  I  am 
a  fountain  without  water,  with  only  mire  and 
dust  to  offer,  like  these  dried-up  pools  about  us, 
drained  of  all  hope,  of  all  that  slakes  the  world's 
thirst.  I  have  only  a  little  draught  for  myself 
which  will  soon  be  dried.  And  since  I  have 
mingled  with  actual  life,  I  see  that  there  is  no 
knowledge  to  equal  that;  all  is  there:  to  know 
whence  we  come  and  whither  we  are  going. 

"I  do  not  know.  My  little  friend  will  leave 
me;  her  wild  green  eyes  will  close,  and  I  shall 
have  given  no  answer  to  the  question  she  had 
prepared  for  me.  And  for  three  years  I  have 
been  teaching  children!  These  little  ones,  when 
they  have  passed  through  my  classes  and  Mile. 
Renee's,  will  in  a  few  years  become  the  wives 
of  labourers,  artisans,  or  farmers.  With  what 
strength  shall  I  have  fortified  them?  I  do  not 
know;  I  doubt  everything  to-night,  myself  and 
them.  I  ask  myself  whether  I  shall  not  have 
made  heavy  hearts  heavier  and  added  moral  pov- 
erty to  the  lot  of  the  poor." 

During  the  following  ten  days,  Davidee  re- 
turned twice  to  the  house  on  the  Plains.  She 
longed  to  go  oftener,  but  her  duties,  the  papers 
to  correct,  the  visits  of  parents,  as  well  as  the 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  123 

warnings  of  Mile.  Renee  that  she  was  away  too 
much,  all  kept  her  at  the  school.  No  one  spoke 
of  the  child  any  longer,  now  that  she  had  ceased 
coming  to  the  play-ground.  In  the  morning 
Phrosine,  avoiding  the  assistant,  would  say  to 
Mile.  Renee:  "Things  are  going  worse  with  us 
all  the  time.  We  have  no  luck."  She  almost 
always  arrived  early,  before  the  teachers  had  come 
down,  and  having  done  her  morning's  work, 
sweeping  and  airing  the  rooms  and  sprinkling  the 
floors  with  a  watering-pot  to  lay  the  dust,  she 
disappeared,  leaving  the  court-yard  gate  open  for 
the  children  to  enter. 

On  her  next  visit  to  the  Plains,  Davidee  had 
no  expectation  of  finding  her  little  friend  out-of- 
doors.  Warm  spring  showers  were  falling  at 
times,  over  a  few  fields  only,  driven  across  the 
clear  sky  by  distant  thunder-clouds. 

But  Anna  was  there,  sheltered  by  an  umbrella 
which  Phrosine  had  hung  above  her  head  among 
the  branches.  She  was  breathing  more  easily  and 
a  tinge  of  colour  had  come  to  her  cheeks. 

The  child  had  barely  greeted  her  friend  when 
she  said  eagerly: 

"Tell  me,  I  beg  of  you,  what  I  asked!  You 
did  not  answer  my  question  the  other  day." 

Davidee,  who  had  anticipated  this  persistence 
on  the  child's  part,  replied: 

"Have  you  made  your  first  communion?" 

"Oh,  surely!" 

"So  have  I.  Pray  then  to  Him,  since  the 
desire  moves  you." 

"Oh,  Mademoiselle,  what  are  you  doing? 
Take  care!" 


124         davidE:ebirot 

For  Davidee,  with  a  sudden  movement,  had 
thrown  open  the  gate  and  was  crossing  the  grass, 
holding  up  her  skirt  with  both  hands  to  avoid 
making  a  rusthng  sound  among  the  leaves.  She 
came  close  to  the  child  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek, 
and  in  doing  so  she  inhaled  her  feverish  breath. 
She  involuntarily  drew  back  and  as  she  did  this 
the  thought  crossed  her  mind  with  wonder:  "If 
I  had  faith,  I  should  bend  over  her  again  with  a 
smile."  But  she  only  said  very  gently:  "It  is 
you,  Anna,  who  do  me  good!" 

The  sick  child  in  her  joy  had  closed  her  eyes, 
she  now  opened  them  again,  and  made  a  sign 
that  her  friend  must  not  stay,  that  there  was 
danger  there. 

"I  had  to  beg  very  hard  to  be  allowed  to  come 
out  in  the  rain.     But  I  am  happy,  oh,  so  happy!" 

"At  what  I  have  just  said  to  you,  Anna?" 

"Yes,  but  above  all  at  what  you  said  before. 
As  happy  as  a  queen!" 

"As  a  queen!" 

The  Httle  one  murmured  as  Davidee  turned 
to  leave  her: 

"My  beloved  Mademoiselle  Davidee!" 

A  moment  longer  above  the  hedge  her  teacher's 
eyes  met  hers  and  saw  that  they  were  beaming 
and  that  the  lips  still  murmured:  "Beloved! 
Beloved!" 

Davidee  long  treasured  these  words  in  her 
heart  and  many  thoughts  sprang  from  them. 

She  went  back  once  more,  on  the  2d  of 
May,  which  was  a  Sunday.  Vespers  had  just 
finished  ringing  from  the  church  tower  of  Ar- 
desie,  the  sun  was  still  warm.    Anna  lay  with 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  125 

her  body  bent  double  between  the  two  chairs, 
and  her  face,  only  half-raised,  had  lost  all  trace 
of  colour  in  the  cheeks,  all  light  from  the  eyes. 
At  the  moment  when  Davidee  arrived,  Phrosine, 
having  perhaps  caught  the  sound  of  approaching 
steps,  half-opened  the  door  of  the  house  at  the 
end  of  the  alley  of  plum-trees  and  peered  out, 
her /ace,  habitually  hard,  now  wearing  a  hostile 
expression.  She  did  not  wish  that  the  child's 
teacher  should  lean  over  the  hedge;  she  was  about 
to  speak  rudely  to  her,  to  drive  her  away,  to 
catch  up  the  child  in  her  arms  and  carry  her 
inside  the  house,  where  no  stranger  could  speak 
to  her  of  her  mother.  But  the  little  one,  though 
unable  to  turn  round,  or  to  utter  a  cry,  had  per- 
ceived, from  the  look  in  her  friend's  eyes,  that  her 
mother  was  behind  her,  and  feared  that  if  Davi- 
dee were  driven  away  she  might  not  return.  And 
knowing  this,  she  raised  one  arm  above  her  head 
like  a  httle  ivory  sceptre,  and  made  a  sign  to  her 
mother,  several  times  repeated,  which  plainly  said : 

"Go  back;  leave  me  my  only  joy!"  and  Phro- 
sine obeyed  without  a  word.  Without  laying 
aside  the  expression  of  hostility  and  defiance 
which  she  wished  should  be  seen  and  understood, 
she  drew  herself  up  and  retired  within  the  house. 

Anna,  realizing  that  all  danger  was  over,  that 
she  should  not  be  carried  in  against  her  will, 
closed  her  eyes  and  seemed  lost  in  thought.  Davi- 
dee, fearing  to  weaiy  her,  withdrew  a  little  from 
the  gate,  but  the  child  at  once  beckoned  to  her 
to  return.  Pressing  both  hands  to  her  lips  and 
throwing  her  whole  soul  in  a  kiss  to  this  half- 


126  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

unknown  friend,  who  was  about  to  disappear, 
she  murmured  very  tenderly,  Hke  a  prayer  or  a 
last  wish: 

"I  give  mamma  to  you." 

The  3^oung  girl  threw  open  the  gate  and  ran 
to  the  child,  kneeling  beside  her  in  the  grass  and 
embracing  her.  This  time  she  did  not  draw  back, 
she  felt  beating  against  her  breast  the  tired  heart 
which  revived  a  little  at  the  sweetness  of  her 
words : 

"I  accept,  Anna;  I  give  you  my  promise,  and  I 
will  love  you  forever." 

When  she  returned  from  the  house  on  the 
Plains,  on  that  2d  of  May,  she  felt  her  heart 
crushed  and  emptied  of  joy  as  a  bunch  of  grapes 
crushed  in  the  \Adne-press.  She  looked  at  the 
blossoming  hedge-rows,  at  the  branches  peeping 
over  the  wall,  at  the  tender  blue  of  the  sky,  with 
no  sense  of  pleasure  in  them.  In  the  road  close 
to  the  school,  she  was  enveloped  in  a  sudden  breath 
of  warm  air  laden  with  the  scent  of  broom,  and 
she  said:  "Pass  on!  my  child  is  d>ing;  pass  on 
to  others,  you  have  no  power  over  those  who 
are  really  suffering.  A  heart  must  be  half  happy 
to  expand  at  your  touch."  She  saw  men  and 
women  coming  out  from  the  church,  where  they 
had  attended  vespers.  Their  faces  wore  a  firm, 
tranquil  expression.  Most  of  them  belonged  to 
a  colony  of  slate-cutters  settled  for  generations 
on  the  borders  of  the  valley,  people  of  worth 
and  dignity,  and  of  ancient  race;  and  mingling 
with  them  were  a  few  Bretons  who  remained 
loyal  to  their  faith,  though  far  from  the  country 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  127 

of  the  open  spires.  As  they  passed  the  assistant 
teacher,  a  few  bowed  to  her,  others  glanced  at 
her  distrustfully,  because  she  was  not  one  whom 
they  met  at  religious  services,  and  of  her  per- 
sonally they  knew  nothing,  as  her  family  were 
strangers,  and  the  school  was  a  closed  and  for- 
bidden spot  to  them.  Davidee  understood  all 
this,  she  had  the  gift  of  divining  sympathies  and 
antipathies.  She  opened  the  door  of  the  school- 
house,  of  her  "home,"  and,  as  Mile.  Renee,  on 
hearing  the  click  of  the  latch,  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  she  cried  out  to  her: 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  I  am  very  unhappy!" 

The  blonde  Mile.  Renee,  who  still  had  her  best 
hat  on,  and  was  removing  the  glittering  hat-pins, 
rejoined,  with  her  mind  full  of  other  thoughts: 

"Really?" 

"We  are  going  to  lose  Httle  Anna  Le  Floch. 
I  have  just  seen  her,  she  cannot  hve." 

"I  was  expecting  it." 

"You  are  not  grieved  over  it  as  I  am  then? 
It  does  not  matter  to  you?" 

"What  a  state  you  are  in,  my  poor  Mademoi- 
selle Davidee!  You  are  not  at  all  reasonable! 
Come  in." 

The  directress  took  the  young  girl's  hand  and 
led  her  into  the  parlour,  where  she  seated  her  in  a 
chair,  and  sat  down  near  her  in  the  solitary  arm- 
chair, which  was  usually  reserved  for  the  inspector, 
when  he  made  his  rounds  two  or  three  times  a 
year. 

"You  are  much  too  soft-hearted!" 

"But  the  child  is  d3dng,  I  tell  you." 


128  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

"In  the  first  place,  j^ou  cannot  be  sure  of  it. 
She  is  young!  And  then,  j^ou  cannot  be  the 
teacher  of  twenty  or  thirty  childreii  without  one 
of  them  dying  some  time.  Death  comes  to  all 
ages." 

She  spoke  in  an  amiable  tone  of  voice,  as  one 
who  wished  to  please,  but  not  to  express  sympathy. 
For  sole  answer  Davidee  burst  into  tears,  and 
instinctively  laid  her  head  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  one  human  being  who  might  possibly  com- 
fort her.  Mile.  Renee  kissed  her  and  patted  her 
hair,  and  there  was  in  her  caress  an  evident  ad- 
miration for  these  soft  dark  tresses  and  an  ex- 
treme complaisance  of  manner. 

"Do  not  weep,  child.  It  is  bad  for  you.  You 
will  wear  yourself  out,  and  no  one  will  thank  you 
for  it.  At  your  age  one  should  not  weep  too 
much,  one  should  try  to  enjoy  life.  Drive  away 
these  sad  thoughts;  let  us  talk  of  other  things. 
By  the  w^ay,  tell  me  the  first  steps  in  your  love- 
affair  with  Maieul  Rit-Dur." 

Davidee  rose  to  her  feet  and  pushing  away  the 
directress,  cried: 

"What  are  you  saying.  Mademoiselle?  I  can- 
not permit  3'ou — you  insult  me — I  am  in  love 
with  no  one,  and  least  of  all  with  that  man.  But 
if  I  should  ever  have  a  confidence  to  make,  I 
swear  to  you " 

The  directress  had  risen  also. 

"Go  on.  Mademoiselle;  go  on,  I  beg  of  you!" 

The  assistant  had  already  reached  the  door, 
and  as  she  opened  it  she  heard  a  burst  of  mock- 
ing laughter  following  her. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  129 

"You  are  prostrated,  are  you,  Mademoiselle? 
Ah,  you  strike  me  as  utterly  ridiculous!  Look 
me  in  the  face,  I  insist  upon  it.  I  have  the 
right  to  give  orders  here." 

Davidee  turned  her  head  and  saw  a  face  pale 
and  convulsed  with  passion,  with  deep  lines 
furrowed  in  it,  and  eyes  blazing  with  hatred; 
while  this  woman,  standing  there  in  her  fine  at- 
tire, clenched  her  hands,  calling  out  in  accents 
broken  by  rage: 

"It  is  all  over,  I  tell  you — I  have  been  too  in- 
dulgent. Ah,  you  dare  to  treat  me  in  this  fash- 
ion! You  shall  pay  for  it,  I  promise  you!  For 
the  moment  I  merely  give  you  warning  that  your 
intimacy  with  that  Phrosine  is  regarded  as  abso- 
lutely disgraceful.  Your  virtue,  Mademoiselle, 
stands  in  need  of  lessons.  It  prefers  to  give 
them,  but  will  have  to  receive  them  too.  You 
are  compromising  yourself.  And  you  would  do 
well  not  to  converse  on  the  road  with  Maieul 
Jacquet,  your  gardener  while  awaiting  something 
better.  But  you  think  I  know  nothing;  I  know 
everything  you  do;  take  care!" 

The  assistant  made  no  reply;  she  turned  and 
went  up  to  her  chamber,  no  longer  weeping. 
Standing  before  her  window,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  distant  prospect,  a  fever  in  her  blood,  she  re- 
viewed the  incidents  of  the  past  few  weeks.  They 
poured  through  her  mind  tumultuously ;  fear  had 
no  part  in  the  emotion  which,  while  it  held  her 
trembling  and  oppressed,  left  her  completely  mis- 
tress of  her  reason  and  her  will.  The  girl  was 
striving  to  recognize  the  motives  which  had  in- 


130  DAVIDEEBIROT 

spired  her  actions,  to  recall  the  impulses  of  her 
soul  at  each  meeting  with  Phrosine,  with  Maieul, 
and  with  Amia,  and  the  fancies  which  had  filled 
it.  She  would  have  been  glad  of  some  external 
aid,  some  witness  who  could  assure  her  that  she 
had  not  yielded  to  an  excess  of  irritation,  perhaps 
to  a  secret  and  hitherto  disguised  antipathy, 
when  she  had  broken  just  now  with  Mile.  Renee. 
Henceforth  the  hostility  of  the  directress  was 
declared;  it  would  be  open  and  implacable;  and 
yet  Davidee  regretted  nothing,  neither  her  words 
nor  her  indignant  gesture;  for  what  had  caused 
them  but  her  wounded  sense  of  honour,  over- 
sensitive perhaps,  but  which  she  could  not  dis- 
avow. She  would  never  yield,  cost  what  it 
might;  in  utter  solitude  though  it  were,  she 
would  maintain  her  right  to  live  as  she  thought 
best,  and  to  act,  outside  the  school,  as  she  had 
done  hitherto.  More  than  all  her  reasonings, 
it  was  the  memory  of  Anna  Le  Floch  which 
helped  her  through  this  moral  and  physical  crisis. 
It  was  often  the  custom  at  nightfall  for  the 
\'illage  children  to  wander  from  one  hamlet  to 
another,  by  twos  or  in  little  groups.  On  Sun- 
day especially,  those  who  had  been  spending 
the  day  with  a  friend  rarely  failed  to  return  home 
for  supper.  Remembering  this,  Davidee  now 
descended  the  stairs  and  seated  herself  on  a 
stone  at  some  httle  distance  from  the  school- 
house  door.  The  evening  sky  was  cold  and 
pure;  the  wind  which  had  been  spring-like  all 
day,  light  and  warm,  now  blew  in  sudden  gusts 
which  made  the  late  strollers  along  the  country 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  131 

road  shiver.  The  broom  flowers  had  doubtless 
withdrawn  their  perfume  into  the  depths  of  their 
golden  calyxes,  for  the  wind  bore  upon  it  only 
the  odours  of  upturned  earth  and  fresh  sods. 
What  stubble  fields,  high  upon  the  plateau;  what 
fields  of  young  wheat  were  sending  their  mes- 
sage to  the  world  below,  that  bread  should  not 
fail?  The  young  girl  wrapped  her  arms  closer 
within  the  folds  of  a  cape  she  had  thrown  over 
her  shoulders.  She  raised  her  head  and  showed 
the  worn  and  weary  face  of  one  emerging  from 
a  sorrow  of  which  the  anguish  is  a  little  spent, 
but  without  strength  and  without  consolation. 
She  looked  toward  the  west  where  the  sky  was 
darkening,  and  thought  of  httle  Anna.  She  was 
like  a  mother  parted  from  her  child,  who  still 
sees  her  ever5;where. 

One  or  two  stars  began  to  twinkle  between 
two  gnarled  old  willows  in  the  pasture  opposite. 
Suddenly  she  heard  a  clattering  sound  which 
seemed  to  come  from  the  direction  of  the  quar- 
ries; now  nearer,  now  further,  to  the  right,  to 
the  left  of  the  old  houses;  one  could  not  tell 
whence  came  this  noise,  which  approached,  then 
died  away,  then  returned  again,  sounding  like 
the  clapper  of  a  great  mill  wheel.  But  those 
wheels  belonged  to  her  own  countrj^  w^here  the 
water  sets  the  mills  singing  on  the  plain  of  Cha- 
rente,  and  where  the  sea  pours  her  torn  sea-weed 
in  through  so  many  streams  and  channels  to  be 
swept  out  again  by  the  tide.  There,  in  her  fine 
new  dwelling  far  too  large  and  too  white  for  her, 
sat  an  aged  woman,  who,  having  dusted,  brushed. 


132  DAVIDEEBIROT 

waxed  and  set  her  house  in  order  all  the  week, 
was  now  waiting  until  the  day  should  be  quite 
spent,  and  she,  grown  one  day  older,  could  forget 
in  slumber  her  only  daughter,  this  Davidee,  who, 
seated  by  the  roadside  of  Ardesie,  was  sighing 
as  she  used  to  sigh  when  a  tiny  child,  a  long  while 
after  having  wept. 

Three  quaint  Httle  figures,  three  shadows  hold- 
ing each  other  by  the  hand,  were  approaching 
from  the  direction  of  the  mounds,  their  sabots 
clicking  all  together  as  they  hesitated  half-way 
between  the  school-house  wall  and  the  stragghng 
hedge,  terrified  at  the  sight  of  that  crouching 
immovable  figure,  with  a  white  drapery  about 
its  head.  But  a  well-known  voice  called  to  them 
so  softly  that  not  a  bird  fluttered  in  the  bushes 
near  by. 

"Louise  Tastour,  Lucienne  Gorget,  Jeannie 
Fete-Dieu."  Then  the  dance  of  the  wooden 
shoes  set  in  again,  and  fear  fled  across  the  em- 
bankment of  La  Fresnais,  while  the  three  chil- 
dren rushed  forward  as  boldly  as  if  in  broad  day- 
light, and  surrounded  their  teacher  where  she 
sat.  Louise  Tastour  wore  in  her  hat  an  enor- 
mous feather,  evidently  picked  up  in  the  barn- 
yard; Lucienne  Gorget's  felt  toque  was  encir- 
cled with  a  wreath  of  flowers;  little  Jeannie  was 
bareheaded;  but  her  brush  of  hair  stood  as  usual 
erect  upon  her  forehead.  The  three  children 
were  so  happy  at  meeting  a  friend  on  the  de- 
serted road  where  they  had  feared  to  pass  but 
now  it  was  a  sad  disappointment  to  find  that 
their  teacher  had  been  weeping.    What!    Weep- 


DAVIDEEBIROT  133 

ing  when  one  can  command  others!  when  one 
has  no  lessons  to  learn!  What  could  ail  her? 
They  could  not  ask  except  with  their  eyes,  which 
did  not  half  speak  in  the  darkness,  even  though 
they  bent  over  her  and  were  quite,  quite  near. 

"Your  school-mate  Anna  Le  Floch  is  very 
ill,  children." 

They  understood  now  why  Mademoiselle  had 
been  crying  and  they  became  a  Httle  sad  too, 
but  much  less  so  than  she. 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

"I  fear  that  you  may  never  see  her  again." 
A  Httle  sob  broke  from  one  of  the  listeners,  but 
no  one  could  have  told  which  it  was  who  was  so 
grieved,  for  all  three  were  hanging  their  heads, 
with  their  chins  on  their  breasts. 

Their  teacher  longed  to  say,  "Pray  for  your 
little  friend,"  but  she  dared  not;  she  never  spoke 
that  word  before  her  pupils,  nor  elsewhere,  even 
in  her  own  heart.  If  it  came  to  her  mind  that 
evening  it  was  because  the  sick  child  herself  had 
spoken  it. 

"You  love  her  very  much,  do  you  not?" 

The  three  httle  heads  nodded  all  at  once.  "Yes, 
Mademoiselle." 

"Think  of  her  then,  will  you  not?" 

One  of  them  alone  understood  what  Mad- 
emoiselle meant;  this  was  Jeannie  Fete-Dieu, 
whose  round  eyes  ghttered  in  the  darkness  like 
those  of  a  little  gray  owl.  She  alone  repeated, 
more  gravely  this  time:    "Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

Davidee  put  out  both  hands  and  softly— as  she 
would  have  pushed  away  two  pet  lambs,  with 


134  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

her  hand  buried  in  their  wool— she  pushed  aside 
Louise  Tastour  and  Lucienne  Gorget,  while  she 
drew  Jeannie  closer  to  her. 

"Bend  down  so  that  I  can  whisper  in  your 
ear;  lower  still!  I  want  you  to  dehver  a  message 
for  me,  but  you  must  tell  no  one  whom  it  is  from 
— no  one!" 

"No,  Mademoiselle." 
"You  promise  me?    Then  listen." 
She^  murmured  a  few  words  in  the  child's  ear. 
Jeannie  drew  herself  up,  making  httle  signs  to 
show  she  understood,  and  so  pleased  that  her 
grief  for  Anna  Le  Floch  was  quite  forgotten. 

"Now,  children,"  the  teacher  said  aloud,  "run 
home  quickly;  I  shall  hear  your  sabots  clicking 
till  you  have  turned  the  corner.  By  the  way, 
Jeannie,  how  does  it  happen  that  you  have  left 
your  grandmother  alone  so  long?" 

"Some  one  is  taking  care  of  her,  you  see!" 
said  the  child  looking  up;  "if  it  were  not  for 

that " 

"Who  is  it?" 

The  little  one  laughed  as  she  answered.  "It 
is  a  man,  a  neighbour.  Monsieur  Maieul!"  And 
she  hastened  to  add:  "For  more  than  a  week 
he  has  never  left  the  hill.  Sunday,  Monday, 
he  was  there — we  have  never  seen  so  much  of 
him!  He  passes  all  his  evenings  on  the  hill  now. 
So  he  promised  the  Breton  women,  those,  you 
know,  who  hve  at  La  Gravelle,  that  he  would  go 
down  twice  at  least  while  they  were  away,  and  I 
too — and  see  how  grandmamma  was.  It  was  kind 
of  him,  wasn't  it?    Good-night,  Mademoiselle!" 


DAVIDEEBIROT  135 

The  three  children  ran  off  with  a  sound  of 
sabots  clattering,  now  louder,  now  softer,  as  on 
their  approach.  The  young  girl  had  leaned  her 
head  back  against  the  wall;  she  realized  that 
a  feehng  of  joy  had  entered  her  sad  heart.  Was 
it  possible?  In  return  for  her  httle  effort  of 
courage  in  throwing  aside  her  apathy,  in  being  the 
maiden  who  dares  to  speak  for  purity  in  the  name 
of  eternal  laws — ^for  had  she  not  said  some  such 
thing,  hardly  conscious  in  her  agitation  what 
words  she  spoke? — here  were  ruined  souls  rising 
and  obeying  those  laws — one  of  them  at  least 
had  obeyed.  What  a  struggle  with  themselves! 
And  what  secret  strength  must  have  aided  them! 
What  mysterious  power  had  intervened,  by  which 
the  word  of  a  mere  girl,  the  grief  of  a  child, 
had  triumphed — even  once,  even  for  a  time — 
over  passion,  over  habit,  over  the  pity  for  a  shat- 
tered tie?  It  was  not  to  be  explained,  but  it 
was  beautiful.  It  was  the  same  power  which 
had  given  to  little  Aima's  face  that  look  of  in- 
ward joy  and  ecstacy.  The  child  had  said  no 
word.  \Vho  had  implanted  such  purity  in  her 
soul  that  bad  examples,  heredity,  neglect,  the 
absence  of  all  higher  teaching,  had  been  power- 
less to  corrupt  it  or  to  harden  and  render  it  in- 
sensible? WTiat  compassion  had  listened  to  the 
prayers  of  the  dying  child?  Could  there  be  in 
the  universe  a  watchful  tenderness  which  listens 
to  the  poorest  souls  and  aids  the  feeblest  impulses 
of  charity,  repentance,  doubt,  desire  for  purifi- 
cation, or  even  the  mere  weariness  of  being  bad 
and  a  burden  to  oneself?    Davidee  meditated, 


136  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

her  heart  penetrated  with  the  sense  of  obscure 
destiny,  and  mysteriously,  on  this  night,  she  felt 
growing  within  her  that  store  of  hope  which  each 
of  us  needs  to  carry  us  through  this  human  Hfe. 

The  stars  had  risen  above  the  branches  of  the 
old  willows — the  earliest  ones  visible — and  shone 
upon  the  lonely  road.  "All  his  evenings  now 
he  passes  on  the  hill."  Davidee  looked  up  to 
where  La  Gravelle  and  Mere  Fete-Dieu's  house 
were  sleeping  together  under  the  same  shred  of 
sky  in  the  vast  darkness. 

She  entered  the  house,  where  Mile.  Ren^e  had 
left  a  lamp  burning  for  her  on  the  kitchen  table, 
and  a  little  bowl  of  soup  on  the  smouldering 
ashes  of  the  hearth. 


CHAPTER  V. 


ANNA'S  FUNERAL. 

On  the  three  following  days  of  May  there  was 
bad  news  from  the  house  on  the  Plains.  On  the 
sixth,  Mile.  Birot  was  busy  distributing  books 
from  the  school  hbrary.  Several  of  the  pupils 
and  a  few  village  girls  who  had  left  school,  had 
arrived  at  eleven  o'clock  on  this  first  Thursday 
in  the  month  to  bring  back  the  books  they  had 
read,  and  ask  for  others.  The  young  teacher 
was  standing  before  the  varnished  pine  bookcase 
in  which  were  ranged  a  couple  of  hundred  vol- 
umes, bound  in  cloth,  and  protected  by  a  wire 
netting  and  green  baize  curtains. 

She  knew  most  of  these  books  by  heart,  and 
could  lay  her  hand  at  once  on  any  she  sought, 
as  the  pupil  entered  and,  bowing  to  her,  said:  "I 
would  hke  a  novel,  something  a  Uttle  jolly!" 
How  often  she  had  heard  that  word  and  how  she 
detested  it!  She  had  just  heard  it  again  from 
the  stout  Lucienne  G^boin.  Davids  watched 
the  older  girls  who  walked  away,  reading  as  they 
went,  and  the  little  ones  who  trotted  off  with  a 
book  stuffed  into  the  pocket  of  their  apron  or 
tucked  under  their  arm. 

She  was  about  to  close  the  library  and  return 
to  the  house,  when  Ursule  Morin  entered,  Ursule, 

137 


138  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

slim  as  a  sheaf  of  oats,  indolent  and  shy,  who 
blushed  and  bridled  at  the  smallest  compliment; 
at  this  moment  she  was  looking  sad. 

"WTiat!  you,  Ursule?  You  have  taken  to 
reading,  then?  What  shall  I  give  you — a  fashion 
book?" 

The  teacher  had  spoken  before  looking  at 
Ursule  Morin's  long  thin  face,  always  bent  to  one 
side  like  that  of  a  stubborn  young  goat;  it  was 
now  stained  with  newly  shed  tears.  Stepping 
quickly  toward  her,  Davidee  exclaimed:  "WTiat 
ails  j'^ou,  child?    Is  Anna  Le  Floch  worse?" 

Ursule,  vdih  her  lips  tightly  closed,  merely 
bowed  her  head. 

"Is  she  very^  ill,  then?" 

The  child  bowed  her  head  once  more. 

"She  is  dying?  I  must  see  her  again;  I  must 
go  to  her  at  once." 

"No,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  not  worth  while  to 
go;  it  would  be  too  sad;  she  is  dead." 

It  was  a  long  and  cruel  afternoon  for  Davidee, 
such  as  are  hours  of  grief  when  there  is  none  to 
share  it.  Mile.  Renee,  on  hearing  the  news,  began 
immediately  to  plan  for  the  funeral. 

"WTiat  would  you  have,  Mademoiselle?  It 
was  to  be  expected,  was  it  not?  It  must  be  a 
relief  to  the  mother." 

"Oh,  Mademoiselle,  say  rather  a  remorse,  a 
terrible  blow  which  will  change  everything  in 
life  for  her." 

"How  little  3'ou  know  these  people!  But  it 
does  not  matter — I  shall  leave  it  to  you  to  look 
after  the,  children  on  the  day  of  the  funeral.    You 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  139 

must  see  that  every  child  in  the  upper  class  wears 
a  white  dress,  if  she  has  one.  To-day  I  must 
remain  at  home  for  I  have  a  headache;  moreover, 
it  is  not  fitting  that  you  or  I  should  go  inside 
Phrosine's  house.    If  you  chance  to  be  walking 

in  the  direction  of  the  town " 

"I  hardly  know.  I  have  no  plan." 
"I  merely  suggest  that  if  you  go  that  way  you 
had  better  order  a  wreath  of  flowers.  My  chil- 
dren will  contribute  enough  for  that  and  I  suppose 
yours  will  do  as  much.  Something  suitable,  with- 
out extravagance;  no  excess  of  sentiment,  you 
understand?" 

Davidee  made  no  reply.  As  soon  as  she  was 
free  to  leave  the  school  she  went  out,  and  to  make 
it  evident  that  she  was  not  on  her  way  to  Phro- 
sine's, she  started  in  the  opposite  direction,  toward 
the  village  of  Malaquais,  where  she  intended  to 
take  the  tramway.  The  thought  of  Anna  was 
constantly  with  her;  the  child  was  more  present 
to  her  than  the  landscape  around  her  or  the  men 
and  women  she  passed,  who  were  working  in 
their  gardens,  or  beating  their  clothes  beside  the 
pond,  or  walking  along  the  same  white  ribbon  of 
road  with  her.  The  child  had  vanished  from 
amidst  these  visible  sights,  but  was  it  possible 
that  she  was  gone  forever?  Not  to  have  bloomed 
for  a  single  hour  and  to  die,  thus!  What  injus- 
tice, if  compensation  were  not  granted  her  at 
once  and  forever — assured,  eternal!  These  brief 
unhappy  Uves,  how  they  seem  to  call  for  an  after- 
life! The  thoughts  which  filled  Davidee's  mind 
were  not  cruel  ones;  there  was  consolation  min- 
gled with  them,  an  intimate  persuasion,  hidden 


140  DAVIDEE  birot 

in  the  depths  of  her  soul,  which  formed  itself 
into  words — ^into  a  voice  which  spoke  to  the  girl 
with  no  conscious  will  on  her  part.  "I  have  not 
lived  in  vain,"  it  seemed  to  say;  "my  suffering 
is  over  and  it  has  been  fruitful  suffering.  I  was 
placed  near  souls  in  peril,  my  mother's,  yours, 
others'  perhaps.  The  whole  meaning  of  my  hfe 
has  been  in  its  purity.  I  was  filled  with  a  mys- 
terious love  for  laws  of  right  which  I  hardly  knew; 
I  have  suffered  for  that  love.  I  have  died  for 
it,  and  through  it  I  am  a  conqueror — a  conqueror 
for  her  who  formed  my  body  and  whose  soul  I 
may  save,  if  you  will  help  me,  my  beloved  teacher. 
I  have  given  her  to  you.  Do  not  look  upon  her 
as  others  do  through  her  sin,  but  through  my 
suffering.  Try  to  raise  her!  She  is  weeping  to- 
day; continue  the  work  which  I  alone  could 
begin.  Do  not  listen  to  your  aversion,  let  noth- 
ing repel  you!"  And  Davidee's  soul  overflowed 
with  a  sudden  tenderness,  which  was  her  answer. 

On  reaching  the  suburbs  of  the  town  she 
stopped  at  a  shop  where  they  sold  funeral  wreaths. 
A  stout  man  behind  the  counter  addressed  her 
with  effusive  poHteness.  "If  Madame  will  ex- 
amine our  latest  novelties,  I  am  sure  she  will  be 
satisfied."  Behind  him,  in  cases,  were  suspended 
rows  of  wreaths  made  of  beads  or  artificial  flow- 
ers, as  well  as  zinc  medals,  cast-iron  crosses,  and 
marble  tablets  with  inscriptions. 

"It  is  for  a  child,"  she  said. 

"Of  what  age?  The  age  is  a  very  important 
element.  This  year,  for  instance,  for  the  new-born 
what  we  use  most  is " 

"You    may    make,"    David^e    broke    in,    "a 


DAVIDEEBIROT  141 

wreath  of  white  flowers  and  tie  it  with  a  ribbon 
bearing  the  name  of  the  school.  Make  the 
wreath  large  for  it  will  be  the  only  one,  as  the 
mother  is  poor." 

On  the  morning  of  the  second  day  following, 
the  assistant  was  leading  a  band  of  forty  little 
girls  between  the  sun-steeped  walls  along  the 
road  to  the  house  on  the  Plains.  There  were 
but  forty  in  line  when  she  left  Ardesie,  but  at 
every  cross-road,  at  the  gate  of  every  field,  at 
every  house  door  they  passed,  stood  a  child  clad 
in  white,  or  black  and  white,  or  blue,  who  joined 
the  procession.  For  fear  of  creating  a  scandal, 
the  two  teachers  had  agreed  that  they  would  not 
go  to  the  house,  which  was,  moreover,  one  of 
the  farthest  away  from  the  village.  It  would 
be  unfortunate  if  they  should  have  to  encounter 
Maieul  at  the  house  on  the  Plains,  gi\dng  orders 
as  if  at  home.  The  evening  before,  a  woman 
had  passed  through  the  cluster  of  hamlets,  bear- 
ing a  paper  on  which  were  these  words  in  an 
unformed  handwriting:  ''The  burial  of  my  child 
will  take  place  to-morrow  at  ten  o'clock.  You 
are  asked  to  be  present — Mother  Le  Floch." 

Who  would  answer  this  summons?  ^Miat 
consideration  or  pity  would  be  shown  toward  this 
woman,  who  was  rarely  seen  now  outside  the 
school-house  or  her  owti  doors?  At  the  second 
cross-road,  where  the  children,  with  Davidee  lead- 
ing them,  were  drawn  up  beneath  the  wall,  which 
afforded  just  shade  enough  for  their  height,  the 
breathless  chant  of  the  Ardesie  chorister  arose 


142  DAVIDfiE    BIROT 

and  floated  over  the  glowing  fields.  The  tall 
white  cross,  borne  by  a  choir-boy,  appeared  at  a 
turn  of  the  road,  flashing  as  it  turned;  then  came 
the  cure  preceded  by  his  chorister,  and  lastly  the 
black  horse  drawing  a  small  hearse,  without  fringe 
or  ornament  or  initial  letters,  but  richly  adorned, 
all  the  same. 

All  the  Httle  girls  peered  out  from  the  shadow 
of  the  wall  into  the  sunny  road,  murmuring: 
"^\^lat  is  it?  There  are  showers  of  it  ever}-- 
where,  to  right  and  left,  dropping  and  shining 
on  all  sides.  Oh,  how  pretty  it  is!  When  it 
comes  nearer  we  can  see  what  they  have  placed 
around  her." 

To  the  slow  steps  of  the  one  horse,  the  car 
drew  nearer,  the  jolting  and  rumbling  of  its 
wheels  audible  between  the  words  intoned  by 
the  chorister,  and  soon  they  could  plainly  discern 
the  flower-decked  casket  of  little  Anna.  Scat- 
tered over  the  white  cloth  were  great  sprays  of 
broom,  the  most  profusely  blossoming  of  the 
golden  spindles  forming  a  garland  more  sumptu- 
ous than  any  that  could  be  bought,  more  daz- 
zling than  the  wreath  hanging  below  them  tied 
with  its  white  ribbon.  How  marvellously  spring 
had  adorned  the  dead  child!  Some  hand  must 
have  been  busy  all  day  ransacking  the  thickets, 
choosing  only  the  sprays  without  one  faded 
blossom.  Some  one  doubtless  had  paid  the 
authorities  for  leave  to  surround  the  child  with 
the  flowers  she  loved. 

Behind  the  car  walked  a  woman,  her  head 
covered  with  a  long  black  veil,  and  leaning  on 


DAVIDEEBIROT  143 

the  arm  of  an  older  woman,  one  of  her  neighbours; 
beside  them  walked  a  man  who  had  known  the 
child's  father,  wearing  his  Sunday  suit  and  tall 
silk  hat;  there  was  no  one  else.  The  school- 
children formed  in  a  double  file  behind  the  two 
women  and  the  man.  They  were  scarcely  think- 
ing now  of  the  little  companion  who  had  played 
with  them,  laughed  with  them,  recited  the  same 
lessons;  mourning  lasts  but  a  moment  at  their 
age.  They  no  longer  spoke  of  Anna,  but,  softly 
among  themselves,  knowing  that  they  must  be 
on  their  best  behaviour,  they  whispered  the  names 
of  the  quarrymen  who  stood  outside  their  straw 
shelters  as  the  procession  passed,  raising  their 
caps  respectfully  and  with  feehng — both  young 
and  old — while  some  of  the  women  looking  out  of 
their  windows  crossed  themselves — but  not  all — 
and  thought  of  more  things  than  the  men,  es- 
pecially of  the  stricken  mother. 

The  children  whispered  too:  "There  are  the 
bells  toUing;  they  have  caught  sight  of  us  from 
the  belfry  tower."  The  broom  swayed  hghtly 
with  each  turn  of  the  wheels,  and  flights  of  mar- 
tins, though  it  was  not  yet  their  hour,  circled 
around  the  church  steeple.  Davidee,  who  now 
walked  last  in  the  little  procession,  said  to  her- 
self: "To-morrow  there  will  be  only  her  mother 
and  me  to  remember  her."  She  felt  grateful  to 
Maieul  for  not  having  shown  himself.  "What  a 
power  there  is  in  death!  How  it  holds  in  check 
those  feehngs  which  have  no  right  to  express 
themselves,  or  to  greet  its  coming.  I  thank 
you,  Monsieur  Maieul,  in  the  child's  name." 


144  DAVIDEEBIROT 

It  was  the  first  time  since  her  coming  to  Ardesie 
that  Davidee  had  been  present  at  a  child's  funeral. 
Before  setting  out  she  had  taken  from  her  locked 
drawer  the  only  book  of  piety  she  had  ever  owned, 
her  little  morocco-bound  prayer-book.  When  they 
entered  the  church  she  opened  it,  while  several 
of  the  little  girls  nudged  each  other  and  pointed 
with  a  laugh  to  the  teacher  who  was  reading  the 
mass. 

Davidee  read  very  little.  She  lowered  her  head 
and  raised  it  by  turns;  now  and  then  a  word, 
a  sentence  in  the  liturgy,  brought  her  thoughts 
back,  enriched  by  their  depth  of  meaning,  to  the 
child  whom  she  saw  so  plainly  and  who  had  as- 
sembled all  her  Httle  playmates  around  her  for 
the  last  time.  Who  among  the  pupils  was  pray- 
ing? They  were  so  young,  so  unreflecting!  One 
or  two  perhaps  had  recited  an  Ave  Maria  at  the 
opening  of  the  mass. 

Phrosine,  seated  with  bowed  head  in  the  first 
row  of  seats,  was  such  a  stranger  to  the  rites  of 
worship  that  her  neighbour  was  obliged  to  touch 
her  on  the  arm  when  it  was  time  to  rise  or  kneel. 
The  man,  the  father's  friend,  was  doubtless  await- 
ing, at  the  tavern  opposite,  the  conclusion  of  the 
mass.  And  thus  the  young  girl,  moved  by  this 
loneliness  of  the  newly  dead,  felt  herself  the  only 
friend  who  was  pra}dng  and  joined  with  her 
whole  heart  in  those  thoughts  which  seemed  to 
her  beautiful  in  the  unfamiliar  service.  Was  hers 
a  prayer?  To  whom  was  it  addressed?  It  was 
the  cry  of  a  great  pity  and  of  a  friendship  which 
had  no  longer  any  human  means  of  expression 


DAVIDISEBIROT  145 

or  of  service,  and  which  sought  the  beyond.  "  De- 
liver her  not  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy  and 
forget  her  not  forever,  but  ordain  that  she  may 
be  received  by  thy  blessed  angels.  .  .  .  We  would 
not  have  you  ignorant  concerning  the  dead,  that 
ye  be  not  as  those  who  sorrow  without  hope.  .  .  . 
Now  is  Christ  risen  from  the  dead  and  become 
the  first-fruits  of  them  that  slept.  ...  I  am  the 
resurrection  and  the  life;  he  that  beheveth  in  Me 
though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live.  .  .  .  Let 
the  hght  eternal  shine  upon  her!"  The  greatest 
words  the  world  has  heard  bore  upward  the  mem- 
ory of  a  child  and  the  name  that  was  heard 
amidst  these  prayers :  Anna !  Anna ! 

When  the  service  was  over,  the  humble  pro- 
cession reformed,  ha\dng  but  a  few  rods  further 
to  go.  The  graveyard  of  Ardesie  was  a  long  nar- 
row field  where,  in  the  shelter  of  high  walls,  mosses 
and  shrubs,  broom  and  live-oak,  flourished  in 
profusion,  taking  the  place  of  the  funereal  yew. 
The  oaks  with  their  low  branches  formed  a  wide- 
spreading  roof  through  which  came  glimpses  of 
the  sky  as  through  stained-glass  windows.  These 
boughs  served  as  a  shelter  to  the  carriers  of  Ar- 
desie, like  those  thickets  which  rise  on  the  hill- 
sides of  Provence  to  protect  the  traveller  from  the 
southern  sun.  Crosses  rose  beneath  them,  half 
hidden  at  this  season  by  masses  of  red  fumitory 
and  golden  buttercups.  There  were  foot-paths 
here  and  there  amid  the  dense  grass,  and  spots 
worn  bare  by  the  knees  of  those  who  had  knelt 
there. 

It  was  here  that  they  laid  little  Anna's  coffin 


146  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

while  the  priest  and  the  chorister  chanted  a  final 
psalm.  The  mother  standing  beside  the  little 
grave  gave  one  wild  cry  and  leaned  sobbing  upon 
the  shoulder  of  the  woman  who  had  never  left  her, 
and  who  now  led  her  away  across  the  fields,  say- 
ing softly,  "Poor  soul!  poor  soul!"  while  Davidee 
thought  within  herself,  "I  wish  that  I  had  been 
the  one  to  comfort  her!" 

She  watched  her  pupils  filing  by,  grown  serious 
for  a  moment,  as  they  sprinkled  holy  water  over 
the  white  cloth  and  the  open  grave  and  then 
turned  away,  resuming  their  accustomed  order, 
two  by  two,  with  the  smallest  ones  ahead.  The 
sound  of  steel  hammers  falling  upon  slate  filled 
the  quiet  air  and  died  away.  Davidee  was  so 
full  of  sorrow,  she  felt  herself  so  strongly  drawn 
toward  the  childish  form  resting  there,  that,  hav- 
ing given  the  signal  for  departure,  she  turned  back 
to  gaze  once  more  on  the  live-oaks,  the  open  grave, 
and  the  trampled  grass. 

At  that  moment  the  cure  of  Ardesie  was  leav- 
ing the  cemeter}',  wearing  his  shovel-hat  and  car- 
rying, tucked  under  his  arm,  his  starched  surplice, 
which  bent  like  a  bow  at  each  step.  She  had 
never  spoken  to  him,  though  sometimes  they  had 
exchanged  bows  as  they  met  upon  the  road,  she 
taking  care  to  show  by  her  stiff,  slight  nod  that 
she  was  saluting  an  adversaiy  of  state  education, 
and  he,  not  entirely  able  to  hide  the  displeasure 
he  felt  on  meeting  one  of  the  pair  of  women  who 
were  instructing  the  children  of  his  Ardesie  flock 
without  any  religious  belief,  and  probably — as 
he  supposed — with  the  secret  design  of  turning 


DAVIDEEBIROT  147 

them  aside  from  the  path  of  salvation.  He  could 
not  look  at  Mile.  Renee  or  her  assistant  without 
reflecting  that  he  was  too  poor  to  have  a  free 
school  of  his  own,  without  regretting,  envying, 
and  suffering.  And  as  he  had  never  hitherto  ex- 
changed a  word  with  either  instructress  he  could 
not  fail  to  hold  them  in  equal  suspicion.  He  was 
a  man  past  middle-age,  tall  and  gaunt,  wdth  red 
hair  and  eyebrows  and  a  face  furrowed  by  trial 
and  opposition,  pale  lips  accustomed  to  silence 
and  to  hard  crusts,  and  eyes  of  an  extraordinary 
limpidity.  These  intensely  blue  eyes,  in  their 
deeply  hollowed  orbits,  seemingly  distrustful  of 
themselves  and  habitually  cast  down,  were  like  a 
child's  eyes  in  their  candour  and  a  man's  in  their 
gravity;  eyes  which  would  have  liked  to  see  the 
world  all  beauty,  and  consequently  rested  on  the 
sights  around  him  and  on  humanity  with  pre- 
caution and  with  brief  glances.  When  he  spoke 
of  God  and  of  heavenly  things  his  face  showed 
how  fidelity  to  ideals  can  transform  the  most 
unpromising  countenance.  Mile.  Birot  had  hith- 
erto noticed  only  the  abbe's  stiff  bow  and  his 
faded  cassock;  she  now  saw  both  nearer;  but  it 
seemed  to  her  that  it  would  be  a  discourtesy  not 
to  speak  a  word  to  the  priest  who  had  just  uttered 
his  benediction  over  little  Anna's  grave,  and  who 
had  hastened,  as  she  knew,  on  Sunday  evening 
to  the  house  on  the  Plains. 

"I  thank  you,  Monsieur,"  she  said. 

He  gave  a  little  start  on  hearing  this  unknown 
and  unhoped-for  voice. 

"What!    For  administering  the  sacrament  to 


148  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

the  child?  But  it  is  I  who  have  to  thank  you, 
Mademoiselle.  It  was  you  who  sent  word  to 
me  on  Sunday,  was  it  not,  by  Jeannie  Fete-Dieu? 
That  was  very  well  done;  it  was,  in  fact,  admi- 
rable; yes,  tridy  admirable." 

"What  else  could  I  do.  Monsieur?  I  knew 
Anna's  sentiments  and  I  loved  her." 

"She  was  a  martyr,  Mademoiselle;  there  are 
many  such  who  are  little  known,  many,  many; 
they  mount  straight  upward!" 

Davidee  looked  at  the  abbe,  and  he  at  her,  and 
each  perceived  that  the  other  had  a  tear  on  their 
eyelashes.  The  girl  was  touched ;  she  said  quickly, 
wishing  to  rejoin  the  children: 

"Can  3^ou  do  anything  for  the  mother?" 

"Humanly,  nothing,  Mademoiselle.  She  only 
received  me  on  Sunday  for  her  child's  sake.  But 
I  shall  pray  for  her  to-morrow  at  my  mass.  Really 
it  was  admirable  on  your  part — admirable!" 

Davidee  was  tempted  to  smile,  in  spite  of  her 
grief,  but  at  the  same  time  she  saw  on  the  abbe's 
face  the  radiance  of  a  thought  which  kept  his  soul 
as  serene  as  the  air  of  spring.  She  bowed  and 
walked  away  rapidly,  for  her  httle  charges  had 
already  passed  the  first  houses  beyond  the  church. 

All  that  afternoon  Davidee  was  thinking  by 
turns  of  Anna,  of  Phrosine,  and  of  Maieul  Jacquet. 
What  was  to  become  of  this  woman  who  had 
nothing  to  hve  upon — if  she  had  really  broken 
with  Maieul — beyond  the  paltry  sum  which  the 
Municipal  Council  voted  yearly  for  the  sweep- 
ing of  class-rooms  and  school  premises?  Davidee 
felt  herself  a  novice  in  the  role  of  counsellor  which 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  149 

she  had  assumed;  she  foresaw  that  the  counsels 
of  poverty  would  soon  be  more  potent  than  hers, 
that  the  memory  of  the  child  would  fade,  and  the 
evil  life  be  resumed  with  one  or  another.  How 
could  this  woman  succeed  in  earning  two  francs, 
or  even  a  franc  and  a  half,  a  day?  That  was  the 
chief  problem.  Could  she  do  washing  by  the 
day  in  one  of  the  deserted  quarries?  No,  Phro- 
sine  would  never  accept  such  heavy  toil  as  that. 
Could  she  do  sewing  for  the  neighbouring  farm- 
ers' wives?  But  seamstresses  were  already  nu- 
merous in  Ardesie,  each  having  her  patrons,  and 
it  was  only  young  women  who  could  secure  work 
as  their  assistants,  and,  besides,  there  were  long 
intervals  when  no  such  work  was  to  be  had.  What 
could  she  do?  Take  a  place  in  the  match-factory 
or  some  other  large  factory  in  the  neighbour- 
ing town?  What  a  risk  for  a  woman  with  her 
past  and  her  still  striking  beauty!  These  proj- 
ects and  others  Hke  them  passed  through  the 
assistant's  mind  while  she  sat  in  the  school-room 
till  evening,  having  papers  to  correct  and  next 
week's  classes  to  prepare.  Yet  the  brightness  of 
the  spring  day  outside  was  tempting;  all  the  facets 
of  the  slate  piles  and  the  roofs  glittered  in  the  sun, 
and  the  belfry  was  wrapped  in  a  sheath  of  warm 
rays;  none  could  tell  which  way  the  wind  was 
blowing,  for  each  weathercock  told  a  different 
tale.  Peace  descended  upon  the  earth  with  the 
fall  of  day. 

In  the  vicarage  garden,  which  was  almost 
wholly  uncultivated,  as  the  soil  was  poor  and 
thin,  the  cur6  had   been  reciting  his   breviary. 


150  DAVIDEIE   BIROT 

He  was  seated  under  a  trellis  of  wild  vine  bearing 
small  hairy-  leaves  upon  its  enormous  branches. 
With  his  thumb  slipped  between  the  pages  he 
marked  the  place  where,  by  and  by,  he  would  re- 
sume his  interrupted  reading.  Above  the  aged 
mossy  pear-trees  and  the  crest  of  the  wall  soft- 
ened by  hanging  weeds  and  grasses,  he  was 
watching  the  clear  light  gleaming  over  his  Ardesie. 
Absorbed  in  thoughts  and  cares  for  his  small  and 
scattered  flock,  he  sighed  as  he  turned  his  eyes 
toward  the  distant  chimneys  or  gables  or  the  tops 
of  the  cherry-trees,  which  hid  some  invisible  house 
whose  dwellers  he  knew;  then  he  murmured  gently : 
"Oh,  God,  I  take  these  cares  too  much  to  heart; 
I  vex  mj^self  too  much!  In  our  lamentations 
over  the  wickedness  of  man  we  forget  that  thou 
art  God,  that  thou  art  ever  present,  that  thou 
lovest  us,  and  that  where  thou  art,  there  is  hope. 
Thou  hast  shown  it  to  me.  The  child  thou  hast 
taken  to  thyself  was  a  dove  of  innocence  and 
purity.  Who  could  have  looked  for  it  there? 
Nothing  had  armed  her  against  life,  but  thou 
didst  provide  thy  grace.  And  thou  didst  touch 
the  heart  of  this  young  girl  who  summoned  me. 
Turn  her  soul  now  toward  thee;  and  sustain  mine 
which  is  too  keenly  alive  to  the  extent  of  evil  and 
its  deep  blindness.  Men  would  rob  me  of  my 
charity,  didst  thou  not  replace  it  by  another, 
new  at  each  moment.  I  no  longer  complain,  I 
no  longer  seek  my  own  will.  The  bell  that  rings 
the  sweetest  chimes  has  passed  through  fire.  I 
shall  ring  my  chimes  some  day.  I  must  force 
m.yself  not  to  despond.    How  clear  the  sk}^  is! 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  151 

There  is  heavenly  seed  everywhere  sufficient  to 
sow  every  field — even  this  parish  of  mine — even 
France.  And  have  I  not  my  consolations  too,  in 
such  an  one  as  poor  Mere  Fete-Dieu,  that  hum- 
ble witness  to  the  eternal  gospel?  The  evening 
air  is  sweet;  nature  is  like  man,  now  in  sin  and 
now  in  grace.  The  blessed  sleep  of  childhood 
enwraps  the  world.  Deliverance!  Deliverance! 
The  wind,  that  tired  wagoner,  has  finished  his 
daily  work;  we  hear  no  longer  the  voice  of  the 
north  and  west,  but  the  sounds  of  life  close  around 
us,  and  the  weary  labourers  returning  home.  The 
air  is  sweet;  the  day  is  dying  well.    Magnificat." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


A  TALK  WITH  PHROSINE. 

The  day  after  the  funeral  Phrosine  came  as  usual 
to  do  her  daily  work  at  the  school.  She  was  no 
longer  in  mourning,  but  wearing  the  dust-coloured 
livery  of  every  day.  Davidee,  who  saw  her  as 
she  entered  the  school-rooms  and  as  she  came  out 
again,  was  touched  by  the  look  on  her  face,  so 
li\dd  and  furrowed  by  grief  that  the  children, 
mistaking  suffering  for  anger,  drew  away  from 
her,  without  their  customary  "Good-morning, 
Madame  Phrosine!"  She  never  ceased  to  think 
of  her  while  hearing  her  classes.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  it  was  cowardly  not  to  speak  comfort 
to  this  misery  for  which  no  one  cared,  and  she 
was  concerned  how  best  to  do  it.  Meanwhile 
the  children  were  restless  and  inattentive  and  she 
herself  very  wear}^  At  the  moment  of  leaving 
the  school-room  she  saw  Mile.  Ren^  coming 
toward  her,  surrounded  by  a  buzzing  swarm  of 
children.    The  directress  said: 

"Your  friend,  Madame  Phrosine,  wishes  to 
speak  to  you.  Mademoiselle." 

The  pupils  tittered  at  these  words,  without 
fully  comprehending  the  emphasis  thrown  by 
Mile.  Renee  on  the  words  "your  friend." 

The  assistant  crossed  the  court-yard,  opened 

152 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  153 

the  garden-gate,  and  at  the  end  of  the  box- 
bordered  alley  saw  the  woman  whom  Maieul  had 
left,  the  mother  who  had  lost  her  child;  she  turned 
pale  and  strove  not  to  show  that  she  was  trem- 
bling, for  Phrosine  was  staring  at  her  fixedly,  her 
body  bending  forward,  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
her  chin  supported  on  her  two  hands;  and  there 
was  something  in  those  staring  eyes,  in  that  im- 
movable figure,  a  sort  of  madness  of  grief  and  also 
a  hatred  going  straight  to  its  aim,  which  wounded 
the  young  and  timid  heart  of  the  girl.  She  had 
approached  close  to  Phrosine  before  the  latter 
stirred  or  spoke  or  ceased  to  fix  her  with  her  eyes. 
Davidee  seated  herself  beside  her  on  the  bench 
and  said: 

"You  wish  to  speak  to  me,  Phrosine?" 

"Yes,  I  wish  to  tell  you  how  I  hate  you  and 
your  bigotries.  You  have  done  me  such  injuries 
that  I  ought " 

"What  ought  you  to  have  done?" 

"To  have  burned  your  house  over  your  head!" 

"But  I  have  no  house." 

"The  school-house,  then!  Do  you  think  I 
could  not  have  found  two  or  three  sturdy  lads  to 
help  me  if  I  had  wished!  But  I  care  nothing  for 
men  now,  only  for  my  misery.  I  hate  you,  do 
you  hear?" 

"Say  it,  if  such  words  soothe  you;  repeat  it, 
if  you  will.  It  is  enough  for  me  that  I  have  not 
deserved  your  insults,  Phrosine." 

"Do  not  call  me  Phrosine.  I  am  no  longer 
the  drudge  who  sweeps  your  school-rooms.  That 
trade  is  done  with;  all  is  done  with  between  us. 


154  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

I  am  Madame  Le  Floch,  deserted  by  her  husband 
and,  through  your  doing,  deserted  by  her  lover. 
I  am,  above  all,  a  mother  whom  you  robbed  of  her 
child's  love,  and  then  of  her  child's  joy  and  her 
life." 

"Who— I?" 

"You,  no  one  but  you!  Look  here!  it  is  all 
very  well  for  the  priests  to  despise  and  condemn 
a  woman  like  me.  They  have  their  gospel,  their 
God,  their  prayers.  But  you!  how  does  it  con- 
cern you?  Where  did  you  learn  that  we  cannot 
lead  our  lives  as  we  will?" 

"From  the  laws." 

"What  laws?  Those  that  can  be  made  and 
unmade?  I  know  who  they  are  who  make  those 
laws;  much  they  trouble  themselves  if  these  same 
laws  stand  in  their  way!  You  are  all  hypocrites, 
you  and  those  like  you.  It  was  not  your  place 
to  judge  me  and  it  was  you  who  taught  my  child 
to  judge  me." 

"No,  she  judged  you  herself." 

"But  you  encouraged  her  in  it,  you.  Mademoi- 
selle Birot,  and  she  is  dead,  dead,  dead!  And  for 
a  long  while  I  have  only  held  her  body  in  my  arms 
when  I  embraced  her.  I  hate  you  for  all  the 
hollow  kisses  she  gave  me,  for  all  the  tears  she 
shed — which  wet  my  cheeks!  Without  your  les- 
sons she  would  be  living  now." 

"Alas!  she  had  other  reasons  for  dying." 

"What  were  they  then?" 

"The  blood  in  her  veins.  But  if  I  helped  to 
make  her  soul  purer  I  do  not  regret  it,  even  if  she 
suffered;  even  now,  when  you  reproach  me  for 


DAVIDEEBIROT  155 

it.  I  wish  all  my  children  in  the  school  were  like 
her." 

"You  see!  You  upheld  her  in  it!  Besides, 
you  told  me,  beneath  my  own  roof,  that  I  was  sin- 
ning. You  must  change  your  ways,  lay-teacher 
as  you  are,  or  else " 

"Or  else ?" 

"There  are  fellows  who  are  afraid  of  nothing 
here;  they  will  report  to  your  chiefs  and  you  will 
march!"  She  said  this  without  moving,  in  a  low 
sinister  tone,  without  ceasing  to  stare  at  the  court- 
yard, whence  came  the  cries  of  Anna's  li\dng  play- 
mates. It  was  by  a  visible  effort  that  she  re- 
strained the  sobs  which  shook  from  time  to  time 
the  head  propped  on  her  hands  and  the  loosened 
masses  of  her  hair  which  glistened  in  the  sunshine. 

Davidee,  in  order  to  restrain  her  impulse  of 
indignation,  spoke  as  few  words  as  possible.  She 
felt  all  there  was  of  bitter  grief,  but  also  of  revolt 
against  everything,  and  of  moral  perversion,  in 
this  anger  and  these  threats  of  Phrosine's.  These 
two  women  appeared  to  any  one  watching  them 
from  a  distance,  as  Mile.  Renee  did,  to  be  talking 
calmly  enough,  one  of  them  bending  over  wearily, 
the  other  sitting  erect  beside  her  in  the  brilliant 
morning  light.  Davidee,  on  hearing  herself  threat- 
ened— what  mysterious  feeling  of  generosity  was 
it  that  had  taken  possession  of  her? — was  moved 
only  to  pity.  She  bent  over  the  woman  and 
said: 

"Madame  Le  Floch,  since  you  do  not  wish  me 
to  call  you  Phrosine,  I  am  only  a  poor  girl  who 
is  trying  to  teach  others.     I  know  little,  I  doubt 


156  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

many  things.  What  I  teach  is  perhaps  Chris- 
tianity, though  I  am  httle  of  a  Christian  myself, 
but  I  am  very  sure  that  there  can  be  no  happiness 
in  a  Hfe  of  disorder,  and  that,  you  see,  is  what  made 
me  speak.  I  loved  your  child,  I  guessed  why  she 
suffered,  though  it  was  not  I  who  planted  those 
seeds  of  suffering  in  her  heart.  But  no  one  can 
make  me  say  that  she  was  wrong.  I  may  have 
to  'march,'  as  you  say,  but  nothing  can  prevent 
my  justifying  my  little  friend,  who  wished  her 
mother  not  to  have  a  lover." 

Phrosine  broke  in:  "You  will  give  me  a  living, 
then?" 

"I  would  gladly,  if  I  could.  I  would  willingly 
share  what  I  have  with  you." 

The  green  eyes  opened  wider  as  they  turned 
upon  Davidee,  and  one  could  see  in  them  the 
ignoble  spirit,  suspicious  of  all  good  in  others  and 
confident  only  in  itself.  Phrosine  shrugged  her 
shoulders  with  a  scornful  laugh. 

"Innocence!  I  am  not  one  to  be  led  by  you. 
You  need  not  try  to  do  me  good,  it  was  enough 
for  you  to  preach  to  the  child.  I  am  of  harder 
stuff,  I  don't  believe  in  words  and  I  did  not  come 
here  to  ask  alms  of  you.  But  I  wish  you  to  know 
something  besides  what  I  have  already  told  you. 
You  have  succeeded  in  separating  Maieul  Jacquet 
from  me.    You  think  that  a  fine  victory?" 

"For  him  perhaps." 

"You  are  mightily  mistaken;  he  loves  me  still. 
It  was  he  who  wished  to  leave  me,  I  won't  deny 
that.  As  for  me,  I  let  him  go  on  account  of  the 
child  who  was  so  ill.     But  if  I  had  chosen  to  keep 


DAVIDEEBIROT  157 

him  he  never  would  have  left  me.  He  had  me 
in  his  blood!" 

"I  have  no  wish  to  hear  yom*  secrets." 

"And  what  if  I  want  to  tell  them  to  you?  This 
very  day  I  need  only  make  a  sign  to  him.  If  I 
come  back  some  day " 

"You  are  going  away  then?" 

"  If  I  come  back,  and  if  I  wish  it,  I  need  not  even 
make  a  sign.  I  have  only  to  throw  him  one  glance 
across  the  old  pit  of  La  Grenadiere,  and  he  will 
come  back  to  me  as  a  dog  runs  back  when  you 
call  him." 

"  Why  do  you  tell  me  this?" 

"You  are  warned,  that's  all!" 

"I  have  no  need  of  a  warning." 

"I  know  what  I  am  saying!  Yes,  I  am  going 
away.  You  will  hear  no  more  of  me  for  many  a 
long  day,  perhaps  never.  I  cannot  do  without 
a  child;  my  daughter  is  dead,  I  must  have  my 
son.  I  shall  go  until  I  find  Le  Floch  and  make 
him  tell  me  what  he  has  done  with  Maurice." 

"What  will  you  live  upon  meanwhile?" 

"I  can  surely  earn  ten  sous  a  day,  anywhere, 
by  sweeping  houses  as  I  did  here,  can't  I?  Don't 
begin  again  giving  me  moral  lessons.  It  is  a  good 
riddance  for  you  when  a  woman  like  me  goes 
away.  I  shall  hunt  for  my  first  child,  the  one  his 
father  robbed  me  of.    Good-by,  Mademoiselle." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  as  she  spoke  and  Davidee 
took  her  hand.  "You  have  not  succeeded  in 
wounding  me,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  where  you 
are  going?" 

"Straight  before  me!" 


158  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

She  did  not  draw  away  her  hand  as  she  spoke, 
however,  but  left  it  in  the  young  girl's.  The 
children  were  at  that  moment  forming  in  line  to 
enter  the  school-room. 

"Have  you  at  least  some  reason,  Madame  Le 
Floch,  for  believing  that  your  husband  is  alive, 
and  if  so,  where  he  is  likely  to  be  working?" 

"I  heard  something  about  him  from  the  man 
who  w^as  at  the  child's  funeral." 

"Have  you  any  money  for  your  journey?  Is 
it  far  from  here?" 

"I  shall  work  my  way." 

"But  you  will  not  know  any  one.  "WTien  shall 
you  start?" 

Phrosine  made  no  answer. 

"I  must  see  3^ou  again;  when  do  you  go?" 

Without  turning  her  head  the  woman  replied: 
"To-morrow  at  sunrise";  and  sa;ying  this,  she 
turned  to  go,  and  Davidee  entered  her  class- 
room at  the  same  moment  that  the  servant,  in  her 
working  clothes,  but  with  a  sunbeam  falHng  on  her 
hair,  opened  the  gate  leading  into  the  highway 
and  disappeared. 

From  the  Green  Diary. — "How  hard  this  day 
has  been  for  me !  If  I  could  only  have  had  leisure 
and  freedom  to  think  over  what  I  should  say  to 
Phrosine,  this  morning,  and  decide  what  I  had  best 
do.  But  the  rest  of  the  morning  was  spent  in 
suppressing  noise  and  chatter  in  the  class,  in  pun- 
ishing some  of  the  girls,  and  listening  to  answers 
which  showed  clearly  how  Httle  interested  the 
parents  are  in  their  children's  work,  and  how  it  is 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  159 

left  to  me  to  deal  unaided  with  these  undisciplined 
minds  and  untrained  impulses.  When  I  said  this 
to  Mile.  Renee,  whom  I  scarcely  speak  to  now, 
she  merely  laughed  at  me.  What  coarse  natures 
there  are  among  these  children!  And  when  I 
reprove  them,  I  am  conscious  that  I  do  not  reach 
them.  They  fear  me,  that  is  all.  My  words 
have  no  influence,  they  are  met  only  by  sullen 
indifference  or  a  spirit  of  irony  and  defiance,  which 
seems  born  in  them,  which  they  breathe  in  with 
the  air  around  them  and  which  is  like  Phrosine's 
laugh.  And  yet  some  of  them  show  affection  as 
they  gather  about  me  after  the  lessons.  But, 
alas,  what  will  their  affection  for  me  weigh  ten 
3^ears,  or  two  years  hence?  Even  if  I  succeed  in 
making  them  really  love  me,  what  shall  I  have 
given  them  to  make  them  better?  I  have  dreamt, 
like  so  many  others,  of  surviving  in  my  schol- 
ars. I  used  to  say  in  myself:  'My  thoughts,  my 
strength,  my  judgment,  will  Hve  in  the  minds  of 
these  girls  and  these  mothers.'  What  thought? 
AVhat  strength?  What  real  authority  \vdll  Da\i- 
dee  Bu'ot's  judgment  have  over  them,  when  self- 
interest  is  involved  or  passion  carries  them  away? 
"It  is  growing  late.  I  find  it  hard  to  collect 
my  thoughts  after  the  emotions  and  tumult  of 
the  day.  I  still  hear  the  sound  of  the  children's 
voices,  as  I  sit  alone  here  in  my  room,  and  Phro- 
sine's  voice  as  she  spoke  to  me  this  morning. 
What  did  she  mean  when  she  boasted  of  possess- 
ing a  power  over  Maieul  which  no  one  could  shake? 
'I  have  only  to  look  at  him,'  she  said,  'across  the 
pit  of  the  Grenadiere,  and  he  will  come  to  me  as 


160  DAVIDEE  birot 

a  dog  to  its  master.'  Why  did  she  say  that  to 
me?  It  must  be  that  gossip  has  been  active  here, 
among  the  quarry-pits,  and  that  my  name  has 
been  mixed  up  with  their  wretched  slanders.  Ah ! 
how  base  it  all  is!  And  yet  I  must  see  Phrosine 
again.  WTiat  do  his  threats  matter  to  me?  I 
cannot  let  her  go  without  some  proof  of  interest 
on  my  part.  I  have  given  her  my  promise,  and 
now  that  she  has  been  deserted,  she  is  even  more 
alone  in  the  world  than  I.  I  have  twenty  francs 
here  in  my  drawer,  I  will  give  them  to  her,  and  I 
can  beg  mamma  for  more.  To-morrow  morning 
— at  what  hour?  I  will  leave  my  shutters  open 
so  that  the  sun  pouring  in  may  wake  me." 


CHAPTER  VII. 


A  CLANDESTINE  DEPARTURE. 

At  dawn  of  a  clear  bright  morning,  Davidee  had 
risen  and  left  the  school.  No  one  was  stirring 
yet,  among  the  mounds,  nor  along  the  roads.  The 
only  sound  that  recalled  men's  labour  was  the 
whistle  of  an  exhaust  pump,  throwing  off  its  puffs 
of  white  steam,  at  regular  intervals,  at  the  en- 
trance to  a  quarry-well  at  Trelaze.  The  fields 
lay  wrapped  in  slumber  and  the  grass  was  heavy 
with  dew  and  sleep.  The  girl  walked  onward 
rapidly.  Should  she  meet  Phrosine?  She  barely 
glanced  at  the  scene  around  her,  her  heart  was 
heavy  at  the  thought  of  this  woman  setting  out 
alone,  without  help  of  any  sort,  leaving  behind 
her  the  house  where  little  Anna  had  Hved.  Had 
Phrosine  given  notice  to  any  one  of  her  departure, 
she  wondered?  Perhaps  some  neighbour  was  help- 
ing her  at  this  moment  to  tie  up  her  bundle 
of  clothing  and  close  the  house.  Here  was  the 
long  roof  and  the  hedge!  The  market-gardeners 
were  not  yet  at  work;  a  sparrow  was  twitter- 
ing on  the  roof,  but  there  was  no  smoke  rising 
this  morning  from  Phrosine's  chimney.  What  si- 
lence seemed  to  surround  the  departing  woman! 
The  morning  mists  were  melting  away,  overhead, 

161 


162  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

and  blue  sky  peering  through,  as  the  sun  was 
about  to  rise.  Davidee  heard  no  sound  but  the 
neighing  of  a  horse  turned  out  to  pasture  and  the 
distant  slamming  of  some  housewife's  shutters. 
As  she  pushed  open  the  little  gate  and  took  a  step 
or  two  along  the  mossy  path,  Phrosine  appeared 
on  the  threshold,  closed  the  door  and  turned  the 
key.  She  had  no  longer  any  hold  upon  her  poor 
dwelling  except  this  key  which  she  turned  slowly, 
slowly,  standing  motionless  for  a  moment  as  if 
she  could  look  through  the  closed  door.  Then 
she  turned  away,  holding  the  key  in  one  hand  and 
cariying  on  her  arm  a  large  white  wicker  basket 
whose  double  lid  was  gaping;  for  everything  she 
owned  was  in  that  basket — her  clothing  and  food 
for  the  journey,  a  pair  of  shoes  and  a  few  memen- 
tos of  her  dead  child.  As  she  caught  sight  of  the 
assistant  teacher  her  face,  which  had  been  merely 
sad,  grew  suddenly  hard.  After  casting  a  last 
glance  around  the  silent  garden  she  approached 
her,  saying: 

"Don't  make  any  noise!  I  haven't  given  the 
landlord  notice.  He  can  sell  whatever  he  finds; 
I  have  nothing  to  pay  him  with,  but  I  will  write 
and  ask  him  to  have  patience."  She  had  on  her 
black  dress,  the  collar  of  which  was  fastened  with 
a  gold  pin,  the  sole  remnant  of  her  wedding 
fineries.  She  always  went  bareheaded  along  the 
Ardesie  roads,  and  to-day  as  usual  she  wore  no 
cap  nor  bonnet.  She  was  well  aware  how  beau- 
tiful her  hair  looked  in  the  sunlight.  Davidee 
could  not  restrain  her  admiration  as  she  gazed 
at  her. 


DAVIDEE    BIROT  163 

"How  young  she  looks!"  she  said  to  hereelf; 
"what  a  pity  it  all  is!" 

"I  will  walk  part  wa}^  with  you,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice.  "Let  me  help  you  carry  your  bas- 
ket." She  took  hold  of  the  handle  as  she  spoke, 
and  walking  a  httle  apart,  with  their  burden 
swinging  between  them,  the  two  women  took  the 
road  toward  the  town.  The  houses  they  passed, 
standing  amid  their  gardens,  were  some  of  them 
old  and  fine,  with  pointed  turrets  and  muUioned 
windows  commanding  a  wide  view  over  the  val- 
ley. Phrosine  turned  her  face  away  to  avoid 
being  recognized  by  the  farmers'  wives  who  dwelt 
in  these  old  houses.  As  the  road  made  a  bend 
among  the  orchards,  Davidee  asked:  "Are  you 
sure  of  finding  your  husband?" 

"No!" 

"Nor  your  son?" 

"Just  as  little.  But  I  mil  find  them.  If  I 
have  to  make  the  tour  of  France  and  enter  every 
house  where  there  is  a  boy  fourteen  years  old,  I 
will  see  my  son  again." 

"You  may  not  recognize  him!" 

"He  was  the  image  of  me.  Do  I  look  like 
other  people?" 

"You  are  on  your  way  to  the  station,  are  you 
not?    How  far  do  you  expect  to  go  to-night?" 

Phrosine  walked  on  a  while  without  replying. 
Just  then  they  heard  a  sound  of  wheels  behind 
them.  It  was  a  peasant  woman  driving  her 
small  cart  laden  with  milk-pails. 

"Shall  I  give  you  a  hft,"  she  cried,  "you.  Mere 
Le  Floch,  and  your  companion?" 


164  DAVIDEEBIROT 

"Thank  you,"  answered  Phrosine.  "I  am  not 
going  far."  And  turning  toward  Da^ddee  she 
began  to  address  her  volubly: 

"Two  years  ago,  he  took  our  son  away  from  the 
Board  of  Charity  Home  where  he  had  left  him. 
He  went  to  Paris  for  him,  he  can't  deny  that;  no, 
for  those  who  manage  the  home  sent  for  informa- 
tion about  him  and  me  to  Pere  Moine,  the  man 
you  saw  at  my  child's  funeral.  My  husband 
was  at  Orleans  then,  or  in  the  neighbourhood.  I 
shall  take  a  ticket  for  Orleans  and  hunt  for  him 
there;  but  you  must  tell  this  to  no  one." 

"I  give  you  my  word,  Madame  Le  Floch." 

The  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Oh,  come ! 
You  might  as  well  call  me  Phrosine,  you  won't 
have  long  to  say  it." 

They  had  reached  a  height,  in  their  steady 
climb,  where  the  air,  blowing  across  the  hills, 
fanned  their  faces.  And  on  feeling  this  keen  air 
from  the  slopes  beyond  the  Loire,  where  broader 
roads  cross  the  wide  valley  and  lead  into  the 
wider  world  beyond,  the  two  women  paused  with 
a  sudden  sense  of  weariness.  They  set  the  bas- 
ket down  in  the  dust  by  the  roadside. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Davidee,  "we  are  far  enough 
now  from  Ardesie." 

"The  wind  no  longer  smells  of  the  broom," 
Phrosine  answered.  "It  is  all  over.  I  have  set 
off  this  morning  on  the  longest  journey  I  ever 
took." 

She  raised  her  hard,  resolute  eyes  toward  the 
valley,  but  she  no  longer  saw  it  clearly. 

"Come,  come!"  she  said,  "I  mustn't  flag  now. 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  165 

I  think  it  must  be  the  air  of  this  new  country 
which  makes  the  basket  so  heavy.  My  arm  is 
Hke  wool.     If  only  I  could  leave  it  all  behind." 

"Yes,  all  the  evil  of  the  past,  Phrosine." 

"All  the  poverty,  to  be  sure!" 

"  But  not  all  the  sorrow.  Take  that  along  mth 
you,  Phrosine;  it  will  protect  you  on  your  way. 
The  sun  is  already  high;  only  look!" 

The  tiled  roof  of  a  cottage  by  the  roadside  was 
flushed  with  pink  like  a  newly  opened  rose.  The 
two  women  stooped  and  set  off  again,  keeping 
step,  as  they  swung  the  basket  between  them  on 
their  out-stretched  arms.  They  walked  on  thus 
for  a  couple  of  hundred  paces  till  they  reached 
the  rusty  gate  of  an  old  brick  chateau,  closely 
shuttered  now,  but  which  had  formerly  looked 
far  out  across  the  valley.  Here  they  paused 
again  and  turned  their  heads  with  one  accord 
to  the  left,  whence  came  the  breeze  and  the 
morning  light.  Under  their  feet  was  the  last 
plateau  of  that  vein  of  slate  which  here  sinks  into 
the  depths  of  the  earth;  before  their  eyes  was  a 
deserted  knoll,  clothed  with  a  thin  herbage  al- 
ready scorched  by  the  heat,  which  dipped  down- 
ward to  mingle  with  the  light  soil  of  the  plain. 
Below  them  rose  long  lines  of  poplars,  showing 
where  the  clay  and  ooze  of  the  stream  fed  their 
roots.  Farther  still  could  be  discerned  another 
curve  of  the  valley,  now  veiled  in  mist,  where 
white  houses  rose  amid  the  joyous  landscape, 
with  its  wide  highways  and  rich  pastures  inter- 
spersed with  budding  boughs  on  the  hedge-rows 
bordering  the  fields,  on  grove  and  woodland,  and 


166  DAVIDEEBIROT 

with  sharper  pinnacles  of  foliage  emerging  here 
and  there.  The  wide  expanse  was  half -swathed 
in  a  veil  of  mist,  as  far  as  the  line  of  hills  which 
follow  the  windings  of  the  Loire  and  the  pale 
blue  circle  of  the  horizon.  The  two  women  ex- 
perienced, perhaps,  a  kindred  emotion,  as  they 
breathed  in  the  air  of  this  wide  landscape  and 
followed  with  their  glance  the  sweep  of  the  val- 
ley cur\dng  toward  the  east,  and  the  river  flowing 
through  it  from  the  farthest  borders  of  France. 
They  could  see  the  hill  of  St.  Saturnin,  which 
alone  loomed  mountain-hke  in  the  scene,  its 
wooded  slopes  rising  like  faint  blue  smoke  above 
the  dazzling  mists  of  the  valley.  Phrosine  asked: 
"Is  Orleans  over  yonder?" 

Da^ddee  gave  an  affirmative  nod. 

"If  I  could  only  find  my  boy!" 

"Oh,  yes!"  cried  Da\ddee  fervently;  "only  to 
find  him!" 

"And  take  him  away  from  my  husband.  He 
shall  not  have  him!  And  yet  to  think  that  I 
cannot  see  my  Maurice  except  by  means  of  that 
man!"  She  said  this  with  a  smouldering  rage, 
long  nursed  in  soHtude,  and  ready  to  break  out 
at  any  moment.  Her  eyes  followed  the  line  of 
the  valley  and  the  houses  dotted  along  the  high- 
way, seeing,  perhaps,  nothing  of  it  all,  absorbed 
as  she  was  in  her  bitter  thoughts  and  the  uncer- 
tainty of  her  future;  nothing  save  the  far-off  vil- 
lages which  she  would  enter,  seeking  her  faith- 
less husband  and  a  son  who  might  be  dead  or 
lost  to  her.  There  were  no  witnesses  near  them 
now,  and  her  heart  spoke  out. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  167 

"Mustn't  he  have  been  a  wicked  man!  To 
snatch  my  little  boy  away  from  me,  when  he 
was  barely  three  years  old.  To  carry  him  off 
at  night,  when  I  was  coming  home  late  from  a 
hard  day's  washing  and  my  baby  was  so  soon  to 
be  born!" 

"He  had  not  even  threatened  you?  There 
had  been  no  quarrel  beforehand?" 

"No — as  to  quarrels,  one  can't  be  married 
without  them — but  he  had  made  no  threats. 
He  had  only  said  when  I  told  him  my  news: 
'What!  two  brats!  No,  not  for  me.'  And  when 
I  came  in  that  night,  dead  tired,  I  found  the 
house  dark  and  empty — as  it  is  now — ^with  only 
a  cold  hearth  awaiting  me." 

"What  a  coward!" 

"Just  as  they  all  are,  a  bit  more  or  a  bit  less." 
And  Phrosine  laughed  aloud,  showing  her  white 
teeth  and  tossing  back  her  masses  of  golden  hair. 
"And  yet  I  was  a  handsome  girl,  I  can  tell  you. 
He  had  courted  me  and  spent  money  for  our 
wedding,  as  though  I  had  been  a  queen.  But 
there  are  plenty  of  such  two-year  queens  about 
the  world!  I  don't  know  why  I  tell  you  this,  but 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  should  see  him  there,  at  the 
end  of  that  lane,  and  as  if  we  should  kill  each 
other  when  we  meet.  How  I  have  cursed  him! 
He  was  the  cause  of  all! — of  all!" 

Davidee  stretched  out  her  hand  toward  the 
hills  across  the  Loire. 

"Who  knows,  Phrosine?  He  may  be  quite 
changed  now!" 

"Oh,  no!  not  he!" 


168  DAVID^IE   BIROT 

"  What  if  you  were  to  find  him  sick  or  in  poverty?" 

"That  man,  never!  He  is  having  his  sport  with 
some  other  woman.  I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  that  I 
am  ahve." 

"What  if  he  should  be  touched  at  meeting  you? 
If  you  could  win  him  back?    Onty  try." 

"My  poor  young  lady!  we  should  need  to  have 
fresher  hearts  than  ours  for  that.  We  hate  each 
other  now,  he  and  I,  with  a  bitter  hatred." 

"But  even  if  you  come  back  with  your  child 
only,  it  will  be  the  sa\dng  of  you.  You  will  begin 
a  new  life,  with  your  boy  to  aid  you;  even  with  a 
little  help  from  me  if  3^ou  are  willing.  They  for- 
bid my  seeing  you,  but  I  shall  manage  to  see  you 
all  the  same.  You  will  not  be  lonely  and  desper- 
ate then  as  3'ou  are  now.  There  will  be  friendly 
people  around  you." 

Phrosine  hstened  to  these  words  with  her  lips 
contracted  by  the  old,  bitter  mockery.  She 
scarcely  knew  the  sound  of  words  of  pity.  She 
did  not  want  it,  she  distrusted  it.  Was  she  being 
laughed  at?  she  wondered. 

"Look  here.  Mademoiselle  Davidee;  do  not  play 
the  innocent.  It's  not  for  your  interest  to  look 
after  me,  quite  the  contrar}^" 

"I  do  not  understand  you." 

"Enough!  you  would  do  much  better  to  look 
after  yourself." 

"I  shall  have  time  to  think  of  that  after  you 
are  gone." 

"You  had  better  be  seeing  about  your  position 
in  the  school  or  you  will  lose  it.  You  have  been 
denounced." 


DAVIDEEBIROT  169 

"Denounced?    For  what  reason?" 

"I  am  merely  warning  you.  You  have  been, 
I  know  it." 

"Very  well  then,  I  will  defend  myself." 

"Look  out  for  that,  in  the  first  place.  And  in 
the  next  place,  do  not  wish  me  to  come  back.  It 
will  be  far  better  for  you  if  I  never  come." 

"Why  so,  Phrosine?" 

The  woman  stooped,  seized  the  handle  of  her 
basket,  and  began  to  walk  on,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
straight  before  her  on  the  first  houses  outside  the 
town;  then  she  spoke  without  turning  round:  "I 
am  not  worth  much.  Beware  of  me,  I  tell  you;  I 
am  not  your  kind.  If  I  were  ever  to  come  back 
you  would  be  sorry  you  had  known  me;  do  not 
doubt  it!  Now  let  us  talk  of  something  else. 
There  is  the  high-road,  over  yonder." 

The  answer  did  not  come  at  once. 

"You  do  not  like  me,  Phrosine;  I  know  that 
now.  But  if  you  ever  need  me,  call  on  me  all 
the  same." 

Phrosine  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders.  They 
had  reached  the  spot  where  the  road  joined  the 
high-road  from  Angers  to  Briare.  The  tram-car 
was  approaching,  rumbhng  and  snorting  along  the 
rails  like  a  huge  bumblebee  caught  in  a  spider's 
web. 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Phrosine.  "What  you 
have  done  was  in  memory  of  the  little  one.  I 
know  that  well."  And  with  these  words  she  stopped 
the  passing  car,  boarded  it,  and,  having  set  her 
basket  on  the  rear  platform,  she  called  back  over 
the  railing: 


170  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

"It  will  be  better  for  you  if  I  never  come  back. 
Good-by." 

A  cloud  of  dust  and  steam  followed  the  car, 
but  through  it  David^e  could  see  the  gleam  of 
Phrosine's  eyes,  still  full  of  Ardesie. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


LYING  IN  WAIT. 

Denounced!  The  word  is  quickly  spoken,  but 
the  sensation  of  anxiety  it  arouses  lingers  long 
in  the  mind.  Nothing  happened,  however,  to 
confirm  the  warning  given  by  Phrosine  on  the 
morning  of  her  departure.  A  spell  of  oppressive 
heat  had  succeeded  to  a  week  of  cold  rains  and 
hail  showers.  Thunderous  clouds  hung  in  the 
sky  and  cast  a  tawny  light  all  day  long,  weary- 
ing to  the  ej^es.  AU  living  atoms  seemed  to  vi- 
brate more  keenly.  The  air  was  filled  with  the 
humming  and  buzzing  of  gnats  and  flies,  the  chil- 
dren could  not  study,  and  even  the  teachers  had  to 
suppress  their  yawns  and  struggle  to  keep  awake. 

"If  the  inspector  were  to  arrive  on  one  of 
these  exasperating  afternoons,"  David^e  said  to 
herself,  "I  should  be  lost.  He  would  grow  impa^ 
tient  and  I  should  respond  with  a  burst  of  tears, 
which,  from  an  official  point  of  view,  is  the  worst 
of  answers." 

Mile.  Renee  no  longer  addressed  a  word  to  her 
assistant  and  showed  in  every  look  and  gesture 
an  unappeasable  irritation.  Rural  guards  were 
patrolling  the  shores  of  La  Grenadiere,  where 
troops  of  young  workmen  plunged  into  the  pond 
at  all  hours  without  bathing  suits.    Gossip  was 

171 


172  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

rife  at  evening,  among  the  neighbours,  gath- 
ered on  their  slate  door-steps,  all  along  those  bits 
of  road  rambling  across  the  fields  which  consti- 
tute the  hamlet  of  Ardesie.  Rumours  of  a  strike 
began  to  fill  the  air.  In  his  house  of  La  Gravelle, 
one  evening  about  this  time,  Maieul  Jacquet  sat 
WTapt  in  thought  with  his  elbows  on  the  stone 
rails  of  his  belvedere,  hanging  high  above  that 
torn  and  cloven  earth  which  is  never  suffered  to 
rest.  Maieul  had  Httle  taste  for  the  taverns. 
Not  that  he  was  never  seen  entering  the  Little 
Poland  or  the  Pere  Pompette  on  the  general 
pay-day  which,  occurring  only  twice  a  year, 
must  be  fitly  celebrated;  or  even  sometimes 
on  a  Saturday,  after  he  and  his  mates  had  re- 
ceived their  weekly  instalment  of  pay  at  the 
oflBce.  But  a  certain  dislike  of  expense,  a  canny 
desire  to  amass  a  few  sous  in  order  to  pur- 
chase a  garden,  with  a  small  lodging  at  one  end 
of  it  where  he  could  live  by  himself,  had  survived 
in  this  grandson  of  peasants.  He  had  neither 
the  bearing  nor  the  speech  of  a  rustic,  but  rather 
resembled  in  his  carriage,  his  glance,  and  his 
words  some  dismounted  cavalier  of  former  days. 
Yet  he  had  in  his  blood  this  streak  of  the  peasant; 
and  so  at  this  mid-May  season,  when  an  electric 
current  seemed  to  flow  through  men's  veins  and 
arouse  them  to  a  feverish  pitch,  instead  of  sit- 
ting with  his  comrades  on  a  tavern  bench,  Maieul 
was  perched  at  the  top  of  his  winding  stair.  Hav- 
ing no  house-keeper  and  being  careful  of  his  ap- 
parel, he  often  busied  himself  with  sewing  on 
buttons  or  mending  a  torn  vest  or  jacket — a  slow 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  173 

and  difficult  operation,  to  be  struggled  with  on 
his  return  from  work — or  else  he  fastened  fish- 
hooks to  his  Hnes,  stooping  behind  the  parapet, 
so  that  the  neighbours  should  not  see  him  pre- 
paring his  fishing  tackle  for  the  evening  and  night 
of  the  Feast  of  the  Ascension:  excellent  nights 
for  fishing — as  every  one  knows — since  then  the 
fish  always  rise  to  the  surface  of  the  water.  From 
time  to  time,  his  neighbours  in  the  main  building 
called  out  to  him,  m  the  silence  of  these  stifling 
evenings:  "Ho,  there,  Monsieur  Maieul!  is  it 
cooler  up  where  you  are?" 

"None  too  cool,"  he  would  answer. 

"You  say  nothing,  then?" 

"It  must  be  because  I  have  nothing  to  say." 
And  so  the  colloquy  was  soon  broken  off.  The 
women  all  said  of  Maieul  Rit-Dur:  "There  is  one 
who  does  not  waste  his  words,  nor  his  money,  nor 
his  time!  What  a  husband  he  would  make  if  he 
chose,  but  he  does  not  choose!" 

Nine  o'clock,  half  after  nine,  ten  struck;  one 
could  hear  all  over  La  Gravelle  the  sound  of  sup- 
pressed yawns,  scraps  of  talk  and  the  light  foot- 
steps of  mothers  and  children  moving  about  the 
house,  while  in  the  sky  dayhght  lingered  as  if  re- 
luctant to  depart. 

On  Wednesday  evening,  the  vigil  of  Ascension, 
the  women  having  called  out  as  usual  to  the  lodger 
in  the  pavilion,  and  received  no  answer,  a  small 
boy  climbed  cautiously  up  the  outer  flight  of 
steps,  in  his  bare  feet,  for  fear  of  a  cuffing  from 
Maieul,  who  had  no  mercy  on  spies;  but  he  was 
soon  down  again,  capering  and  shouting:  "No- 


174  DAVIDEEBIROT 

body  at  home,  and  the  door  locked  awful  tight." 
Whereupon  the  women  said:  "He  must  have 
gone  to  set  his  Imes,  as  the  night  is  so  fine." 

As  it  happened,  however,  he  was  much  nearer 
home,  in  that  hollow,  filled  with  fading  broom, 
which  nearly  concealed  the  house  of  Mere  Fete- 
Dieu.  He  was  seated  before  the  entrance  on 
a  bowlder,  with  his  hat  off  on  account  of  the  heat 
and  also  out  of  respect  for  the  infirm  old  woman, 
whom  he  had  helped  drag  herself  as  far  as 
the  door-way  and  who  was  seated  beside  him, 
enveloped  in  a  strange  assortment  of  petticoats 
and  shawls  which  he  had  caught  up  hastily.  The 
little  gray  eyes  of  the  old  woman  never  ceased  to 
wander  over  the  fields  of  sky  above  her,  which 
were  the  only  landscape  visible  from  where  she 
sat,  and  where  a  few  pale  stars  were  twinkling. 
Yet  the  eyes  smiled  as  they  looked  up,  for  they 
had  emerged  from  the  darkness  inside  and,  on 
feeling  the  light  strike  them,  assumed  an  expres- 
sion of  curiosity  as  regards  all  \isible  things,  and 
at  the  same  time  of  a  sort  of  repose  and  beatitude 
such  as  is  rarely  seen  save  in  the  eyes  of  children. 
Three  steps  away  from  her,  poised  beneath  the 
grape-vine  on  a  low  chair,  which  she  had  tilted 
back  so  that  her  head  rested  against  the  wall, 
while  her  feet  dangled  without  touching  the 
ground,  was  Httle  Jeannie  Fete-Dieu,  intently 
watching  Maieul  and  her  grandmother,  the  som- 
bre cluster  of  broom  along  the  edge  of  the  hollow, 
the  three  tufts  of  gillyflowers  on  the  wall  and  the 
prowling  cat,  but  rarely  glancing  at  the  sky.  In 
the  last   few  weeks   Jeannie  had  grown  taller 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  175 

and  her  colour  brighter.  She  blushed  more 
readily  and  put  on  little  airs  of  archness  and 
coquetry,  together  with  a  self-consciousness  which 
was  quite  new  to  her.  Maieul  paid  no  attention 
to  the  child,  which  was  the  cause  of  her  seeming 
indifference.  He  talked,  with  little  pauses  be- 
tween his  sentences,  to  the  old  woman,  for  whom 
this  was  a  moment  of  rare  pleasure. 

"This  is  the  time  to  set  the  bees  to  swarming," 
said  Mere  Fete-Dieu.  "  In  my  youth  we  used  to 
watch  for  them  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  as 
soon  as  they  had  flown,  it  was  I  who  ran  the  fast- 
est after  the  swarm,  clicking  my  sabots  together 
between  my  two  hands;  you  should  have  seen 
me!  At  Ascension  time  everything  stirs;  in  the 
air,  in  the  water,  and  I  may  even  say  in  men's 
hearts." 

"You  may  well  say  that,"  responded  Maieul. 

"Even  the  little  beasts  have  a  way  of  their  own 
of  keeping  the  feast  of  our  Lord's  ascension  to 
paradise.  They  do  it  better  than  many  a  Chris- 
tian!" And  so  saying  the  good  woman  cast  a 
little  glance  at  the  slate-cutter,  who  laughed  as 
she  proceeded: 

"And  so  Monsieur  Maieul  will  be  setting  his 
lines  in  the  pond  of  La  Grenadiere?" 

"No,  Mere  Fete-Dieu." 

"In  the  Authion,  then?  No?  As  far  as  the 
Loire?  Oh!  it's  many  a  long  day  since  my  good- 
man  used  to  go  and  set  his,  on  the  eve  of  Ascen- 
sion Day,  where  the  brook  of  Belle-Poule  flows 
into  the  river." 

"You've  not  hit  it  yet,  mother.    I  am  not  out 


17G  DAVIDEEBIROT 

with  my  lines,  that  will  come  later.  I  am  out 
with  my  gun  to-night." 

At  the  same  moment  he  gave  a  significant  nod 
toward  httle  Jeannie,  who  was  still  tilting  back 
and  forward  in  her  chair. 

The  grandmother  spoke  at  once.  "  Jeannie,  my 
pretty  one,  will  you  go  just  for  a  moment  or  two 
up  the  hill  and  see  if  the  neighbours  are  in  bed  yet?" 

The  child  rose  with  a  sulky  air  and  began  as- 
cending the  little  paved  path  that  led  up  the  hill. 
"You  don't  want  me  to  hear  what  you  are  going 
to  say,"  she  muttered,  "but  if  you  think  I  can't 
guess!" 

"Run  along!  run  along!  Did  ever  one  see  such 
a  rogue!  The  truth  is,  Monsieur  Maieul,  that 
she's  far  sharper  than  I  if  she  can  guess  what  you 
want  to  tell  me." 

"The  httle  maids  begin  to  be  sly  at  her  age, 
Mere  Fete-Dieu." 

"They  are  not  dull,  it  is  true.  She  is  a  good 
child,  with  no  mischief  in  her,  only  a  few  little 
airs;  such  a  short  while  ago  she  was  as  simple  as 
a  little  lamb  or  a  young  chick,  and  now  she  is 
more  like  a  lapwing  with  a  new  crest!  What 
was  it  you  were  going  to  tell  me?" 

"Mere  Fete-Dieu,  I  want  to  shoot  a  hare  to 
send  as  a  present  to  Mademoiselle  Birot,  the  as- 
sistant teacher  here!  It's  easy  enough  to  shoot 
the  hare,  but  when  it's  shot,  how  am  I  to  get  her 
to  accept  it?" 

"She  will  never  accept  it  in  the  world!" 

"Ah,  you  feel  as  I  do!  You  think  her  a  young 
lady?" 


DAVIDCEBIROT  177 

"Better  than  that,  Maieul  Jacquet;  she  is  a 
girl  of  a  high  spirit.  Ah,  look  here!  Is  it  about 
her  you  have  come  to  speak  to  me?" 

"Yes,  it  is." 

"Oh,  my  poor  lad!"  And,  so  sajdng,  the  old 
woman  clasped  her  hands  over  her  many  wrap- 
pings, as  if  to  quiet  the  beating  of  her  heart. 
Then  she  was  silent  for  a  long  minute,  and  the 
world  about  her  kept  silence  too.  There  were 
stars  in  the  sky  that  appeared  to  be  listening,  and 
Jeannie  listened  behind  the  fringe  of  broom. 

"  Maieul,  it  is  a  good  thing,  all  the  same,  if  you 
are  off  with  that  other!" 

He  made  no  reply,  but  sat  as  one  who  is  hear- 
ing his  sentence  pronounced,  with  eyes  fixed  and 
lips  parted.  What  had  she  still  to  say — she  who 
had  the  right  to  judge,  being  so  near  the  boundary 
of  this  life  and  already  above  it? 

"You  have  sinned,  Maieul,  and  given  a  bad 
example  to  others." 

"That  is  true,  mother." 

"It  may  be  that  God  will  pardon  you,  when 
you  ask  him,  but  she,  this  Davidee,  who  is  only  a 
woman,  will  she  pardon?" 

"  I  had  not  known  her,  and  besides.  Mere  Fete- 
Dieu,  I  am  young,  you  know,  and  weak — and 
that  other  is  like  a  fate,  one  can't  escape  her." 

"That  is  always  easy  to  say.  Do  you  re- 
nounce her  in  your  heart,  that  Phrosine?" 

"I  don't  renounce  her.  No  one  could  do  that 
but  a  sort  of  saint.  I  can  only  say  that  all  is 
over." 

"Because  you  have  left  her?" 


178  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

"No." 

"Merely  because  she  has  gone  away?  Oh, 
my  poor  boy,  you  are  young  indeed!  What  if 
she  were  to  come  back?  Our  poor  human  hearts 
are  so  weak!" 

"No,  Mere  Fete-Dieu;  there  is  the  dead  child 
between  us.     I  see  her  ever^^  night." 

"Little  Anna,  yes,  yes!  I  see  her  too,  with 
that  look  of  hers  which  was  beyond  her  years." 

"Don't  speak  of  her!  She  is  my  regret.  I 
tell  you  that  it's  over  forever." 

"So  be  it!  Listen,  Maieul,  it  is  a  sacred  thing 
what  one  says  to  a  young  girl  who  has  kept  her 
heart  pure,  like  that  one  at  the  school." 

"So  I  think.  Mere  Fete-Dieu." 

"She  is  pure-hearted;  that  can  be  guessed. 
There  is  the  promise  of  great  goodness  in  her; 
that  can  be  read  in  her  eyes." 

The  man  added  very  low  as  if  dreaming: 

"And  in  her  hands  too!" 

The  old  woman  gave  a  short  laugh,  for  she 
could  not  understand  how  any  one  could  admire 
a  hand.  She  thought  this  Maieul  very  deep  in 
love,  and  something  tender  and  maternal  in  her 
urged  her  to  praise  Davidee  still  more  and  to  as- 
sure herself  that  the  young  man  meant  honestly. 

"I  have  known  several  of  her  profession  here 
in  Ardesie,  but  not  one  who  could  hold  a  candle 
to  her.  She  is  so  good,  too,  in  the  words  she 
knows  how  to  invent;  to  one,  one  thing,  and  to 
another  something  quite  different!" 

"Yes,  even  when  she's  scolding  you;  I  know 
something  about  that." 


DAVIDEEBIROT  179 

"Yes,  there's  a  something  in  her  voice  and  her 
air  which  makes  those  who  have  seen  her  enter 
their  home  regret  her  when  she  goes."  And  the 
poor  old  woman  shook  her  aching  head  slowly 
from  side  to  side. 

"You  would  like  to  have  her  friendship,  would 
you?"  she  went  on.  "Well,  you  are  not  worthy 
of  it." 

"I  had  thought  of  that  before  you  said  it." 

"What  then?" 

"I  can  become  so,"  he  said  proudly.  But  she 
made  no  reply. 

"  Don't  you  believe  that  I  can  become  so,  Mere 
Fete-Dieu?" 

He  bent  his  ardent  gaze  upon  her  as  he  spoke; 
he  had  half  risen  and  she  saw  the  pupils  of  his 
eyes  quiver  in  the  midst  of  their  light  blue  iris. 
A  sigh  of  the  wind  was  wafted  down  the  hollow 
and  stirred  the  young  leaves  on  the  trellis,  which 
rustled  against  the  wall,  while  the  old  woman, 
her  hands  trembling  with  the  inward  dread  she 
felt  at  what  she  was  about  to  say,  reflected  for 
a  moment  longer.    Then  she  spoke  gravely: 

"I  think  it  would  require  a  good  many  things." 

"I  will  do  them  all.  I  have  even  thought  of 
several  already." 

An  observer  might  have  fancied  that  Maieul 
had  just  been  asking  for  Davidee's  hand,  and 
that  she  had  not  positively  refused  him.  He  had 
risen,  and  all  his  youth  glowed  in  his  face.  And 
yet  the  woman  who  had  spoken  was  merely  a 
stranger,  with  no  rights  in  the  matter;  who  had 
only  seen  for  one  short  hour  out  of  her  whole  life 


180  davidEe  birot 

the  girl  whom  she  was  defending  thus.  The  very 
old  have  sometimes  this  mysterious  authority. 
At  this  moment  a  clear  distinct  voice  reached 
them: 

"  Grandmamma,  they  are  all  going  to  sleep.  I 
am  back  again!"  and  a  sound  like  the  scamper- 
ing of  a  young  doe  rang  along  the  hollow  mound, 
as,  bounding  over  the  tufts  of  broom  and  heather, 
Jeannie  reappeared  in  sight. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  shall  do,"  pursued 
Maieul.  "I  have  more  than  one  plan  which  I 
mean  to  carry  out  by  myself,  without  aid  or  coun- 
sel from  any  one,  because  it  is  my  own  idea.  You 
will  see !  For  to-night,  if  I  should  catch  a  hare, 
have  you  any  one  who  can  do  my  errand  for 
me?"  The  old  woman  pointed  toward  Jeannie 
who  was  approaching,  stepping  now  with  pre- 
caution, in  the  hope  of  overhearing  the  end  of 
the  conversation.  Her  grandmother's  gesture 
signified  that  Jeannie  would  be  ready  to  do  his 
errand  and,  to  show  that  she  had  a  basket,  the 
old  woman's  shaking  hand  formed  in  the  air  the 
rounded  curve  of  the  handle. 

"Yes,  yes,  it's  understood,"  the  child  cried; 
''I  have  a  basket,  but  Monsieur  Maieul  will  have 
to  fill  it.     "Where  shall  I  carry  your  game?" 

"Hush,  my  child,  you  shall  know  presently. 
The  gendarmes  may  be  making  their  rounds. 
It's  as  well  not  to  mention  names." 

Jeannie  laughed  below  her  breath  at  this  poor 
pretext.  Her  grandmother  made  an  effort  to 
rise  and  go  back  to  her  bed,  but  Maieul  cried: 

"Lean  on  me;  my  arm  is  strong."    And  having 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  181 

led  her  inside  the  house,  he  soon  emerged  alone, 
passing  lightly  and  rapidly  along  the  bank  with- 
out a  sound.  For  greater  precaution  on  leaving 
his  room  at  nightfall,  he  had  put  a  pair  of  sandals 
on.  From  out  of  a  clump  of  heather,  on  the 
edge  of  the  path  winding  around  the  mound, 
he  picked  up  his  gun,  an  old-fashioned  fowling- 
piece,  long  and  slender,  with  a  single  barrel,  which 
had  long  served  one  or  more  slate-cutters  of 
Trelaze,  before  becoming  the  property  of  Maieul 
Rit-Dur  for  the  sum  of  twenty  francs. 

He  turned  sharply  to  the  left  and,  skirting  a 
woody  plateau  above  the  pit  of  La  Gravelle,  to 
avoid  a  sleeping  farm-house,  he  descended  into 
a  triangular  meadow,  the  point  of  which  was 
held,  as  in  a  vice,  between  the  last  rocks  of  an 
old  quarry  and  the  embankment,  rising  black  in 
the  darkness,  of  the  Orleans  Railway.  Maieul 
climbed  with  some  difficulty  through  dense  thick- 
ets and  over  high  banks,  until,  having  crossed 
the  railway  tracks,  he  found  himself  in  the  open 
country  where  he  was  entirely  at  home. 

The  fields,  surrounded  by  lines  of  trees  and 
hedge-rows,  sloped  upward  toward  the  north.  It 
was  in  that  direction  that  the  young  man  was 
bound,  as  leaving  on  his  right  the  village  of  St. 
Barthelemy  and  crossing  the  highway,  he  soon 
struck  into  a  densely  wooded  region  which  grew 
constantly  wilder  and  more  lonely,  and  where 
he  was  sure  that  a  gunshot  would  not  arouse  any 
watch-dog  nor  a  farm-hand  jealous  of  an  intruder 
poaching  on  his  preserves. 

Dense  forests  once  clothed  this  deep  soil,  pierced 


182  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

by  veins  of  clay  and  iron,  where  the  oaks  swell 
with  sap,  and  ferns,  mosses,  and  mulleins  spring 
up  in  their  shadow  and  preserve  the  moisture 
round  their  roots.  The  woods  which  form  the 
parks  of  Pignerolle  and  La  Marmitiere  are  sur- 
vivals of  this  primeval  forest;  they  must  formerly 
have  been  connected  with  the  woods  of  Echar- 
bot,  and  between  these  two  belts  of  woodland, 
like  a  peninsula  between  tilled  lands,  stretch 
the  birchen  copses  of  Bouleaux.  As  Maieul  was 
skirting  these  copses,  partridges,  hidden  in  the 
stubble,  flew  across  his  path.  He  perceived  in 
the  distance  the  great  farm  of  Haye-le-Roy,  and 
finally  sprang  down  into  the  road  which  passes 
behind  this  farm,  and  forks,  at  the  extremity  of 
the  woodland,  into  several  branch  roads  of  equal 
antiquity,  contemporary  with  the  oldest  cathe- 
drals in  France,  and  which  go  their  way  like  wind- 
ing streams  across  these  solitudes. 

Are  they  hollow  ways,  these  ancient  roads? 
No,  they  have  no  side  banks,  but  are  rather  like 
avenues  connecting  peasants'  houses,  long  dis- 
tances apart.  Lofty  trees,  oaks  especially,  abound 
along  their  edges;  they  have  never  been  levelled 
and  are  grass-gro^n,  being  less  often  trodden 
by  the  feet  of  men  than  by  those  of  animals,  such 
as  flocks  of  sheep  and  cattle,  which,  ha\dng  ex- 
hausted their  pasturage,  are  making  their  way  to 
new  meadows,  stray  dogs  bent  on  marauding  ex- 
peditions, and  game  of  every  kind.  It  was  here, 
at  this  crossing  of  the  ways,  that  Maieul  knew 
an  excellent  hiding-place  where  he  could  lie  in 
wait;  this  was  the  inside  of  a  hollow  stump,  the 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  183 

opening  of  which  was  just  wide  enough  for  a  man  to 
slip  in  and  keep  himself  half  hidden,  to  one  side. 
Bushes  rose  around  it,  completing  the  shelter  with- 
out masking  the  view.  Before  climbing  the  bank 
and  gaining  his  post  of  observation,  the  young 
man  plucked  a  sprig  of  holly  from  a  hedge  and 
stuck  it  upright  in  an  open  spot  where  the  grass 
was  cropped  close,  near  the  centre  of  the  road. 
Then  he  slipped  into  his  hiding-place,  loaded  his 
fowling-piece,  and  waited. 

He  began  to  recall  words  which  Mere  Fete- 
Dieu  had  spoken  to  him;  one  sentence  above  all 
came  back  to  him  in  the  solitude  and  darkness: 
"I  think  many  things  would  be  required  for  that!" 
Poor  fellow,  he  had  invented  a  very  singular  proof 
of  affection ;  a  strange  token  to  offer  her  of  whom  he 
was  afraid  and  whose  gentle  hands  he  so  loved. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  involuntarily  as  he 
thought  of  the  contrast  between  her  and  a  poacher 
such  as  he,  in  hiding  on  the  outskirts  of  the  copse 
of  Bouleaux  on  Ascension  night.  "What  a  fool 
I  must  be!"  he  thought.  "With  her  it  is  neces- 
sary to  know  how  to  talk,  and  that  I  dare  not. 
I  only  know  how  to  make  songs,  and  I  have  no 
heart  to  sing  them  now.  She  has  already  passed 
judgment  on  me.  She  despises  me  because  I 
lived  with  Phrosine.  She  is  right.  It  is  not  the 
gift  of  a  hare  which  will  change  her  toward  me. 
I  was  indeed  a  fool  to  come,  I  was  better  off  under 
the  roof  of  La  Gravelle."  And  yet  he  did  not  issue 
from  his  hiding-place,  and  took  care  not  to  move 
the  barrel  of  his  gun;  he  had  already  denied  him- 
self the  pleasure  of  smoking,  by  the  simple  device 


184  DAVIDEEBIROT 

of  leaving  his  tobacco  at  home.  Suddenly  a  long 
black  shape  bounded  noiselessly  along  the  grassy 
road.  The  leaves  about  him  quivered,  as  he  instinc- 
tively lowered  his  weapon,  but  he  raised  it  again 
immediately,  sure  that  the  flying  shape  could  only 
have  been  a  watch-dog  from  one  of  the  farms,  one 
of  that  dangerous  sort  which  pursues  its  prey  in 
silence.  A  sudden  rebound  of  bent  brambles  and 
a  noise  of  twigs  lashing  the  air  without  visible 
cause,  showed  Maieul  that  the  dog  had  hurled 
himself  into  the  wood  and  started  the  game.  "I 
might  as  well  be  off,"  he  thought;  "my  chance 
of  sport  is  over!"  But  the  shght  noise  died  away; 
not  a  breath  of  air  stirred.  The  night  was  grow- 
ing cooler;  the  grass  was  heavy  with  dew-drops; 
he  could  discern,  a  short  distance  away,  the  out- 
line of  field  and  hedge-row  like  two  shadows  of 
differing  values,  the  one  densely  black,  the  other 
gray  and  without  the  slightest  gloss.  Beyond 
the  road  was  a  lighter  line  where  the  dew  was 
lying,  or  the  grass  had  been  worn  away  by  passing 
feet.  But  the  sky  above  gleamed  like  a  night-lamp. 
High  up  in  the  zenith  a  veil  of  diffused  light 
seemed  to  hang  beneath  the  stars,  transparent 
as  water  lying  in  the  hollows  of  the  sand  when 
the  tide  is  low.  This  light  was  leading  the  pass- 
ing day  into  the  coming  dawn;  it  cast  no  deep 
shadows  Hke  the  moon;  it  was  not  the  aurora; 
but  its  radiance  dominated  the  land,  from  west 
to  east,  and  paled  the  stars.  All  nature  was 
sleeping;  it  was  that  hour  without  fear,  the  mid- 
hour  of  the  brief  summer  night. 
Maieul,  who  had  been  peering  at  the  sky  be- 


DAVIDEEBIROT  185 

tween  the  branches,  on  lowering  his  eyes  toward 
that  part  of  the  road  which  was  enveloped  in 
mist,  saw  emerging  from  it  a  httle  shadow,  which 
made  one  bound,  then  stopped.  He  softly  raised 
the  barrel  of  his  gun,  and  as  he  did  so,  the  hare 
lifted  its  head  and  pricked  up  its  ears;  then,  re- 
assured by  the  stillness,  took  three  more  leaps  to 
the  summit  of  a  httle  green  mound,  where  it  sat 
erect  with  its  fore  paws  as  stiff  as  rods,  amazed 
at  encountering  that  unknown  tuft  of  holly 
which  Maieul  had  planted  there.  And  as  it 
paused,  a  sudden  flash  rent  the  night  air.  The 
shot  resounded  as  far  as  the  woods  of  L'Hopital, 
where  it  was  deadened  by  the  foliage,  and  up  to 
the  farm  of  Haut-Moulinet,  at  the  top  of  the 
hill,  where  it  was  lost  in  the  distance.  Maieul 
Jacquet,  with  limbs  stiffened  by  the  cool  night 
air  and  his  motionless  watch,  descended  the  bank 
slowly  and,  having  scanned  the  road  to  right  and 
left,  came  out  into  the  open.  The  hare  lay  on 
its  side  with  its  nose  against  the  spray  of  holly; 
its  white  breast,  touching  the  grass,  still  stirred 
with  a  faint  breath.  Maieul,  mth  one  turn  of 
his  hand,  drew  the  four  paws  together  and  lifted 
the  little  creature,  head  downward,  its  supple 
body  swinging  at  each  step  as  he  walked  away. 
By  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  young  quar- 
ryman  was  back  at  La  Gravelle,  having  met  no 
one  on  his  way,  save  at  the  entrance  of  a  wood- 
road,  where  he  caught  sight  of  a  doubtful  shadow 
resembling  the  form  of  a  seated  man  which 
dropped  suddenly  into  the  ditch. 

At  eight  in  the  morning,  as  the  sun  rose  high, 
little  Jeannie  climbed  the  steep  pitch  behind  her 


186  DAVIDEEBIROT 

grandmother's  house  which  led  to  the  summit  of 
the  broom-clad  mound.  She  looked  more  serious 
than  usual.  On  her  arm — instead  of  the  small 
black  satchel  in  which  she  usually  carried  her 
lunch,  consisting  of  a  sandwich,  a  couple  of  apples 
or  a  handful  of  cherries — hung  a  huge  and  heavy 
basket;  one  of  those  wicker  baskets,  without  a 
cover,  in  which  the  peasants  gather  potatoes.  It 
was  full  of  clover  and  lucern  which  dangled  over 
the  edges.  Jeannie  hastened  her  steps  and  had 
already  reached  the  high-road  and  passed  the 
church  when  a  school-mate  called  out  to  her: 

"  Where  are  you  going  so  fast?  It  is  not  school- 
time  yet." 

"But  I  am  in  a  hurry." 

"What  are  you  carrjdng  there?" 

"Grass  and  clover  for  the  rabbits." 

She  went  so  fast  that  her  little  mates  had  not 
time  to  slip  on  their  sabots  and  hurry  after  her, 
before  she  was  out  of  sight.  She  was  as  red 
as  her  clover  blossoms  before  reaching  the  play- 
ground, where  only  three  little  girls  had  arrived 
before  her.  All  three  rushed  up  to  her  with  hands 
out-stretched,  crying : 

"What  are  you  bringing  to  the  demoiselles? 
Let  me  see!" 

With  a  half  turn  of  her  shoulder  which  brought 
her  basket  round  in  front,  so  that  they  could  not 
peep  into  it,  Jeannie  hurried  on.  She  nearly  ran 
into  Mile.  Renee  who  was  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  yard,  looking  amused  and  amiable  and  a 
little  curious;  and  who,  quite  sure  of  her  power, 
cried  out: 

"Come,  child,  show  me  the  basket!" 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  187 

The  little  one  turned  on  her  heel,  shaking  her 
head  vigorously,  and  ran  toward  the  porch.  "It 
is  not  for  you/'  she  cried,  with  the  tears  start- 
ing to  her  eyes. 

And  now  she  is  calling  in  the  corridor,  calling 
with  all  her  might  for  Mile.  Davidee,  whom  she 
does  not  yet  see.  She  is  there,  however,  half- 
way down  the  stairs,  fresh  and  bright,  fastening 
her  bodice  as  she  descends. 

"You  need  not  call  so  loud,  dear  child;  the 
house  is  not  ten  stories  high.  One  would  think 
you  were  a  chickweed  seller.  What  have  you 
there?" 

"A  present  for  you,  Mademoiselle!" 

"Who  sent  it?" 

"I  am  not  to  tell." 

"Let  me  see  too,"  said  the  blond  Mile.  Renee, 
suddenly  entering  the  room.  "It  seems  that  it 
is  not  for  me,  but  I  suppose  you  have  no  secrets. 
Mademoiselle." 

The  assistant  shook  her  head  to  signify  "no 
secrets  whatever."  Jeannie  looked  from  one 
teacher  to  the  other,  blushed  a  deeper  red,  then 
set  down  the  basket  on  the  table,  from  which 
Mile.  Renee  hastily  slipped  off  the  blue-braided 
cover,  and  all  three  stood,  with  the  basket  before 
them,  appearing  equally  embarrassed. 

"You  might  venture  to  open  it.  Mademoiselle, 
since  it  is  for  you,"  said  the  elder  one;  "the  school 
bell  will  soon  ring." 

With  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  as  if  she  were 
turning  over  the  pages  of  a  book,  Davidee  tossed 
aside  the  sprays  of  lucern  and  clover,  revealing 


188  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

tufts  of  white  hair,  a  drop  of  blood,  then  a  ghmpse 
of  tawny  hairs.  There  was  no  longer  any  doubt, 
both  had  guessed  who  the  poacher  was.  Davidee 
turned  pale  and  bit  her  lips. 

Mile.  Renee  laughed  below  her  breath,  mur- 
muring, "Very  pretty!    Very  pretty,  indeed!" 

"It's  a  handsome  hare,  isn't  it.  Mademoiselle?" 
said  Jeannie,  who  had  recovered  her  spirits.  "It 
was  grandmamma  who  arranged  him  in  the  bas- 
ket, but  I  picked  aU  the  clover." 

Mile.  Renee,  taking  infinite  precautions  to 
avoid  blood-stains,  and  spreading  out  her  fingers 
like  a  rake,  uncovered  the  hare  completely.  She 
was  quivering  with  malicious  triumph,  but  on 
account  of  the  child,  she  contrived  to  modulate 
her  voice  to  an  amiable  pitch  as  she  said: 

"I  congratulate  you,  Mademoiselle  Davidee. 
You  are  the  object  of  attentions  which  leave  no 
doubt  as  to  the  sentiments  you  inspire,  and  doubt- 
less share." 

"I  beg  of  you " 

"But  why  not?  Nothing  could  be  more  hon- 
ourable, only  this  happens  not  to  be  the  open 
season  for  game;  so  I  must  ask  you  to  have  your 
little  feast  cooked  elsewhere,  will  you  not?  Being 
a  state  servant,  I  have  not  the  right —  Listen  to 
me,  Jeannie!  Do  not  breathe  this,  nor  tell  any 
one  what  you  have  been  doing.  Do  not  speak  of 
what  you  had  in  the  basket,  nor  mention  the 
name  of  the — gentleman." 

Jeannie  raised  both  hands  with  palms  upward. 

"Oh,  no.  Mademoiselle!" 

Davidee,  who  did  not  choose  to  reply  to  Mile. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  189 

Rente's  sneers,  took  a  five-franc  piece  from  her 
purse  and  put  it  into  the  child's  hands.  It  was 
evident  that  her  mind  was  firmly  made  up. 

''Here,  Httle  one,"  she  said,  "you  may  give 
this  to  the  person  who  sent  you." 

Jeannie,  being  a  rustic,  understood  the  full 
gravity  of  this  affront:  to  pay  any  one  who  has 
made  you  a  present!  She  hesitated  and  did  not 
even  venture  to  close  her  fingers  over  the  silver 
piece. 

"Do  as  I  tell  you,  and  go  straight  into  school." 

The  child  raised  her  skirt  and  let  the  five-franc 
piece  sHp  into  a  black  pocket  she  wore  under- 
neath, then  hurried  away.  The  two  mistresses 
passed  out  behind  her,  Davidee,  who  came  last, 
locking  the  door  and  taking  out  the  key. 

From  the  Green  Diary. — "I  can  no  longer 
doubt  that  Maieul  Jacquet  has  raised  his  eyes 
to  me.  The  thought  made  me  shudder  this 
morning.  I  felt  insulted  by  this  love  which  does 
not  even  choose  at  first,  and  then  chooses  far  too 
suddenly.  It  is  not  his  being  a  workman  that 
shames  me,  nor  his  lack  of  culture.  I  see  too 
plainly  what  the  other  sort  are  often  worth.  But 
I  am  not  a  Phrosine.  I  am  not  moved  by  having 
compliments  paid  me  or  presents  like  this  offered 
me.  What  could  he  have  thought?  How  could 
he  believe  that  I  would  accept  his  gift?  And 
what  recklessness!  In  a  \dllage  hke  this  where 
scandal  is  the  only  news!  Jeannie,  I  am  sure, 
has  not  spoken  of  the  errand  she  was  sent  on; 
Mile.  Renee  has  said  nothing;  Mere   Fete-Dieu 


190  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

receives  no  visits,  and  yet  the  whole  village,  or 
cluster  of  \dllages,  will  be  entertaining  them- 
selves to-night  with  the  story  of  the  slate-cutter's 
game;  and  my  name  will  be  pronounced.  Words 
and  plans  and  adventures  will  be  attributed  to 
me  such  as  will  fully  justify  Mile.  Renee's  ill- 
treatment,  in  spite  of  her  ha\dng  nothing  she  can 
truly  reproach  me  with.  The  answer  I  have  made 
has  irritated  this  young  man  w^ho  was  so  self- 
confident.  This  is  not  a  suspicion  on  my  part; 
I  am  sure  of  it.  At  six  o'clock,  the  hour  when 
the  men  go  home  from  the  quarry^,  we  were  sit- 
ting. Mile.  Renee  and  I,  in  the  parlour,  not  for  the 
pleasure  of  each  other's  society,  but  to  correct 
papers  together — or  rather  I  was  helping  her  to 
correct  her  older  girls'  themes,  for  I  try  to  give 
her  reasons  for  not  detesting  me.  As  it  was  very 
warm,  we  had  left  the  windows  open,  but  had 
shut  the  door  on  the  road.  I  had  shut  it  myself. 
Suddenly  we  heard  a  sharp  sound,  and  a  pane  of 
glass  was  shattered  to  atoms.  I  sprang  up,  cry- 
ing: 'This  is  frightful,  they  are  throwing  stones 
at  us!'  But  the  directress  took  me  by  the  arm 
and  pointed  out  an  object  which  had  rolled  along 
the  floor  and  hit  the  wainscot.  'No,  Mademoi- 
selle; it  is  your  five-franc  piece  come  back  to  you,' 
she  cried.  'You  have  a  very  polite  admirer.'  I 
could  not  refrain  from  replying:  'At  any  rate, 
he  has  a  certain  sense  of  honour  about  him;  I 
have  humiliated  him  and  he  refuses  to  submit 
to  it.  I  like  him  the  better  for  that;  as  to  the 
rest,  you  know  that  Monsieur  Maieul  Jacquet 
is  nothing  to  me,   absolutely  nothing.     I  have 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  191 

not  the  power,  unfortunately,  to  prevent  people 
from  paying  me  unwelcome  attentions  or  from 
persecuting  me.' 

"'And  what  would  you  do  if  you  had  that 
power?' 

"'I  should  beg  them  all  not  to  trouble  them- 
selves about  me,  and  to  leave  your  assistant  in 
peace.' 

"Yes,  that  is  what  I  answered,  and  yet  I  think, 
in  spite  of  myself,  of  that  poor  Maieul  and  the 
pain  I  have  given  him.  I  was  obliged  to  do  it, 
I  could  not  help  myself.  But  what  of  him  who 
had  passed  the  night  out-of-doors,  lying  in  wait 
for  his  hare;  who  had  thought  of  me,  uttering 
my  name  in  his  heart,  hoping  I  know  not  what; 
perhaps  a  little  beginning  of  friendship,  perhaps 
less,  merely  a  little  confidence  in  him.  And  I 
have  made  him  suffer!  Why  is  it  so  hard  for  me 
to  feel  this?  I  am  sure  that  of  us  two,  it  is  I  who 
suffer  the  most,  I  who  do  not  care  for  him.  How 
absurd  it  is!  When  shall  I  cure  myself  of  this 
excess  of  feehng?  The  cloud  has  passed  and  still 
the  rain  is  falling.    Oh,  heart  that  loves  to  weep!" 


CHAPTER  IX. 


TRCUBLED  SOULS. 

From  the  Green  Diary. — "June  6,  Trinity  Sunday. 
I  could  no  longer  endure  that  life  of  perpetual 
hostility.  We  had  a  little  hohday  at  Whitsun- 
tide and  I  ran  away  to  spend  it  at  home.  My 
brother  was  there.  He  was  full  of  complaints 
of  the  ill-temper  of  his  chiefs,  and  of  the  injus- 
tices he  has  had  to  endure  at  their  hands.  My 
mother  lamented  the  solitude  in  which  she  had 
lived  for  months  and  in  which  she  would  have 
to  live  once  more  after  we  had  left  her.  She  com- 
plained also  of  my  father,  who  now  passes  half 
of  his  days  at  the  tavern.  He  was  complaining 
of  his  health,  which  is,  I  fear,  greatly  undermined, 
and  of  his  political  friends  who  are  relaxing  their 
attentions  toward  him,  and,  what  my  father 
cannot  pardon,  no  longer  stand  in  fear  of  him, 
now  that  their  former  master  is  growing  old.  I 
should  have  liked  to  bring  my  troubles  too,  into 
that  fine  new  house  which  is  so  far  from  gay; 
fainthearted  grumbling  is  so  natural  to  all  of 
us.  But  no,  I  found  myself  a  child  again.  I 
forgot  everj'thing  that  had  come  since.  I  was 
the  one  they  all  turned  to.  'Won't  you  come  to 
walk  with  me?'  said  one.  'No,  stay  at  home  with 
me/  said  the  other.     'Look  at  me,  console  me, 

192 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  193 

will  you  not?  or  at  least  sit  beside  me  while  I 
work,  even  if  you  say  nothing!'  So  I  taxed  all 
my  energies  to  keep  peace  and  tranquillity  among 
these  weary,  dissatisfied  souls.  They  all  long  des- 
perately for  happiness,  but  do  not  know  where 
to  look  for  it.  This  made  me  think  deeply.  I 
was  their  happiness  once,  but  for  how  short  a 
time,  and  with  what  effort  on  my  part!  How 
sure  I  felt  that  I  could  not  long  fill  that  role  which 
required  more  strength  and  greater  reserve  power 
than  I  have.  I  felt  myself  so  poor  for  such  an 
arduous  life,  requiring  a  constant  giving  out  of 
oneself.  The  ardour  and  the  impulse  are  there 
and  the  will,  but  it  is  soon  exhausted,  and  when  it 
is  not  weariness  that  conquers,  it  is  the  clear,  too 
clear,  sense  of  how  poor  a  thing  I  am.  I  can 
make  myself  loved,  but  to  induce  my  Httle  folk 
or  others  to  do  as  I  wish,  through  love  for  me,  is 
not  to  guide  them!  Whenever  I  have  won  the 
race  against  egotism,  dulness,  moral  apathy 
among  those  I  have  lived  with,  there  or  here,  I 
have  won  it  by  maintaining  noble  truths  which 
I  could  not  support  by  reasoning,  but  which  were 
instinctive  in  my  soul,  or  implanted  there  I  know 
not  how. 

"To-day  the  Ardesie  children  communed,  or 
renewed  their  communion.  I  was  present  at 
the  ceremony,  seated  in  the  background  with  the 
parents,  and  on  their  account.  I  saw  my  chil- 
dren, the  ver}^  smallest  ones  of  ten  or  less,  com- 
ing back  with  clasped  hands,  and  downcast  eyes 
filled  with  a  joy  which  we  cannot  give  them,  and 
which  has  no  resemblance  to  that  we  can  give. 


194  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

Not  all  of  them  wore  this  look  of  ecstasy,  of  bodies 
which  are  mere  shells  over  the  flame  of  their 
adoration,  shades  above  a  lighted  lamp,  but  it 
was  the  greater  number.  I  was  deeply  moved. 
'Cathohcs!'  I  thought,  'you  will  soon  have  to 
lower  the  communion  table  to  the  stature  of  these 
little  ones,  whose  lips  sometimes  scarcely  reached 
above  the  white  cloth,  while  the  priest  had  to 
bend  very  low.  If  I  were  one  of  you,  how  beau- 
tiful this  would  seem  to  me;  to  lower  all  barriers, 
to  multiply  the  divine  visits,  to  pour  love  into 
the  prison-house  newly  built  and  still  undefiled!' 

"I  thought:  'There  is  an  undeniable  relation 
between  these  budding  souls  and  the  mystery 
offered  to  their  faith.  They  so  weak,  with  such 
wretched  inheritances,  who  have  meditated  so 
little  and  received  so  httle  religious  teaching,  have 
to-day  taken  the  same  flight,  and  to  what  heights?' 

"I  thought:  'And  I?  What  part  have  I  in 
that  which  raises  them  thus?  I  have  not  de- 
stroyed faith  like  Barrentier,  who  cannot  see  a 
crucifix  without  foaming;  like  Judemil,  who 
makes  his  pupils  sing  "To  the  gutter  with 
Christ!"  like  some  of  my  own  colleagues,  who 
nourish  a  secret,  dry,  erudite  hatred  of  religion. 
No,  I  have  not  led  my  little  ones  astray,  but 
I  have  done  nothing  to  help  them  to  believe;  I 
have  not  led  them  into  regions  nearer  to  belief, 
where  I  might  have  guided  them;  I  have  spoken 
vain  words.  I  feel  myself  a  sower  of  empty  seed 
which  cannot  spring  up  in  joy.' 

"And  yet  these  children  love  me  because  they 
still  have  hope.    They  had  been  told  that,  like 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  195 

all  their  teachers,  I  possess  the  secret  of  hap- 
piness. They  believe,  they  must  believe,  that 
what  I  teach  them  suffices  for  their  life.  Their 
mothers  beheve  it  also,  and  their  fathers  and 
some  among  my  chiefs.  Mile.  Renee  believes 
it  too,  with  her  poor  narrow  mind,  a  garden  shut 
in  by  high  walls.  Oh,  no,  it  all  suffices  merely 
for  the  material  commerce  of  life :  I  am  not  mak- 
ing women.  I  have  not  caught  the  whole  secret. 
There  is  something  else,  which  is  the  chief  thing 
of  all,  and  which  I  have  not  grasped,  either  for 
them  or  for  myself,  which  I  only  divine.  For 
a  long  time  I  was  fully  persuaded  that  the  name 
of  peace  could  be  truly  appHed  to  the  state  in 
which  I  lived,  absorbed  in  my  professional  duties, 
living  for  my  classes,  a  life  of  text-books  and 
manuals,  with  no  thought  of  what  it  all  leads  to. 
But  I  have  been  thrown,  all  at  once,  into  the 
conffict  of  good  and  evil;  it  is  around  me,  press- 
ing upon  me,  urging  me  to  take  sides,  and  I  do 
so;  but  when  the  moment  for  action  comes  I  real- 
ize my  poverty.  Mere  Fete-Dieu  is  rich,  some 
of  my  children  were  evidently  rich  to-day,  and  I 
am  not  Hke  them.  Phrosine,  whom  I  feel  to  be 
guilty,  whom  I  see  to  be  morally  so  destitute  and 
adrift,  had  only  to  remind  me  that  my  morahty 
was  founded  on  human  conventions,  for  me  to 
be  sure  that  she  was  in  the  right  as  against  me, 
but  that  we  were  both  wrong  in  face  of  a  higher 
morahty:  that  which  has  the  right  to  command 
this  ever-rebellious  world,  that  which  can  oppose 
another  power  to  our  cruel  and  insatiable  self- 
love,  that  which  alone  can  dare  to  speak  of  purity. 
I  have  seen  pure  faces  and  the  sight  has  troubled 


196  DAVIDEEBIROT 

me.  To  be  morally  clean  is  so  far,  so  very  far, 
from  that  marvel:  perfect  purity! 

"I  ask  myself  whether  true  happiness  has  not 
its  roots  in  this  secret  force?  That  would  help 
us  to  understand  why  it  is  so  rare.  And  for  me, 
how  can  I  protect  mine?  What  shall  I  say  to 
Maieul  Jacquet  if  he  comes  to  offer  me  a  real 
love?  I  am  not  one  of  those — and  I  have 
proved  it! — who  hardly  wait  for  the  end  of  the 
first  tender  speech  to  answer:  'Yes.'  But  if  I 
sought  to  demand  from  him  some  proof  of  regret 
for  the  past,  something  better  than  mere  words, 
what  could  I  ask  which  would  give  me  assur- 
ance? Would  he  not  still  have  his  heart  of  yes- 
terday, the  heart  he  gave  Phrosine?  Where  can 
I  find  help  outside  myself,  beyond  that  of  the 
eyes  and  cheeks  and  lips  which  will  soon  fade,  I 
who  wish  to  be  loved  forever.  I  think  of  all  this 
and  find  no  answer. 

"Mile.  Renee  declares  that  I  have  compro- 
mised myself.  I  believe  that  she  would  gladly 
do  the  same. — No,  I  am  like  one  who  is  on 
the  watch  in  a  time  of  disquiet.  I  am  like  those 
sailors'  wives  in  Blandes  who  come  out  of  their 
houses  and  walk  up  and  down  the  shore,  tread- 
ing the  mussel  shells  with  their  bare  feet,  looking 
up  to  the  sky  heavy  with  clouds  and  crying :  '  And 
yet  it  is  dawn!  \Vhat  will  become  of  us?  There 
is  no  daylight  left !  \^^lat  storm  is  about  to  burst? 
AVhat  gale  will  follow  the  storm?' 

"On  Monday,  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday,  as  the 
heat  was  intense  and  my  throat  was  parched 
by  reading,  dictation,  and  reprimands  in  the  ex- 
hausted air  of  the  school-room,  I  walked  home 


DAVIDEEBIROT  197 

with  a  group  of  children  beyond  the  church.  I  even 
went  a  Httle  further  and  entered  for  the  first  time, 
alone,  the  graveyard,  where  the  Spanish-broom  be- 
side the  gate  was  in  bloom.  I  sat  there,  my  back 
against  the  low  wall  and  my  arms  stretched  out 
along  the  warm  stones.  Anna's  grave  was  just  be- 
fore me,  like  a  tiny  bit  of  stubble  amid  a  wilder- 
ness of  tall  grass,  funeral  crosses,  and  live-oaks. 
I  sat  gazing  at  it  quite  alone.  The  one  among  my 
little  charges  who  lived  farthest  from  school  had 
entered  her  mother's  door  and  I  had  heard  the 
latch  fall  as  it  closed  behind  her;  there  was  no 
sound  to  warn  me  that  any  one  was  near,  and 
yet  I  felt  certain  that  I  was  being  watched.  I 
turned  my  head  very  sHghtl}^,  and  there  he  stood, 
just  across  the  road.  He  was  in  his  working 
clothes,  and  bareheaded;  even  now  I  can  see  his 
look  of  passionate  reproach.  He  did  not  speak, 
but  when  I  turned  back  toward  the  little  grave, 
I  could  still  feel  his  eyes  fixed  upon  my  hair  and 
upon  my  hands;  then  I  heard  the  sound  of  his 
retreating  steps.  The  following  day  I  descried 
Maieul  again  on  the  farther  side  of  the  deep 
green  pool  near  the  church,  and  on  the  next  day 
also.  He  was  sitting  on  a  rock  with  his  feet 
hanging  over  the  water.  He  did  not  stir  on  my 
approach,  but  his  whole  heart  spoke  to  me.  I 
did  not  return  that  way.  I  believe  that  this 
sombre,  passionate  Maieul  has  almost  ceased  to 
work,  and  that  it  is  on  my  account." 

At  the  same  hour  that  David^e  was  inscribing 
these  words  in  her  diary,  Maieul  was  returning 


198  DAVIDIi^EBIROT 

from  a  working  men's  meeting  at  Tr^laze,  where 
he,  with  the  others,  had  insulted  and  threatened 
a  foreman  who  had  been  accused  of  trampHng  and 
crushing  to  atoms  several  rows  of  slate  piled  up 
outside  the  wind-break  of  one  of  the  workmen.  No 
one  knew  positively  who  had  committed  this  spite- 
ful deed.  At  early  dawn  one  of  the  mechanics,  on 
his  way  to  the  machine-shop,  had  passed  the  hut 
and  noticed  the  havoc  which  had  been  wrought 
there  in  the  night.  There  were  no  positive  proofs 
against  any  one,  but  this  particular  foreman  was 
detested  because  some  five  years  before  he  had 
openly  trampled  on  several  hundreds  of  slates 
which  he  pronounced  to  be  rotten,  and  which  the 
workman  was  obliged  to  replace.  In  the  tena- 
cious memory  of  the  slate-cutters  nothing  is  for- 
gotten; the  man  was  accused  of  this  new  misdeed 
as  a  punishment  for  his  former  act.  He  denied 
the  charge.  For  two  long  hours  he  had  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  wall  in  the  long  low  hall  where 
two  hundred  of  his  comrades  held  him  prisoner 
striving  to  defend  the  position  he  had  earned  by 
fifteen  years'  labour,  and,  with  it,  his  daily  bread, 
his  family,  his  right  to  reside  among  the  blue  vil- 
lages where  he  had  a  garden  and  a  little  group  of 
friends,  and  which  was  endeared  to  him  by  habit. 
Meanwhile  the  crowd  facing  him  had  not  remained 
seated  ten  minutes,  but  after  listening  to  a  few 
brief  words  from  the  leader,  who  had  first  said: 
"This  is  he!"  they  had  risen,  all  together,  and 
formed  themselves  into  a  compact  howling  mass, 
bristling  with  uplifted  hands,  advancing  and 
receding  Hke  waves  beating  upon  their  victim, 


DAVIDEEBIROT  199 

who  stood  on  a  chair,  his  arms  crossed  on  his 
breast,  his  mouth  open,  shrieking  out  words  to 
which  no  one  hstened.  A  shower  of  blows  rained 
upon  him,  some  stealthily,  some  directly,  but  he 
made  no  attempt  to  return  them,  nor  to  hold 
on  his  clothes  which  were  dropping  off  him.  The 
buttons  had  been  torn  from  his  vest  and  his  hairy 
chest  showed  between  the  opening  of  his  shirt. 
His  trousers  were  falling  off  his  hips,  his  necktie 
was  gone,  and  rags  of  shirt-sleeves  hung  from  his 
shaking  arms  as  he  poured  forth  his  hoarse  cries: 
"It  was  not  I,  cowards!  it  was  not  I!"  After 
two  hours  of  this  torture,  as  he  had  not  yielded, 
they  decided  to  declare  a  strike  in  order  to  force 
the  slate  company  to  dismiss  this  man  who  re- 
fused to  resign.  He  had  then  crawled  out  between 
two  lines  of  his  tormentors,  who  struck  at  him  as 
he  passed.  Finally  he  had  plunged  into  the  night, 
with  the  free  air  and  open  space  before  him,  and 
groping  painfully  along  the  wall  with  his  hands, 
he  had  passed  down  the  street — a  forlorn  shape 
recognized  by  the  women  at  their  windows  where 
they  were  watching  wearily  for  the  return  of  their 
husbands — and  seeing  his  bent,  crushed,  lamenta- 
ble figure,  they  threw  their  windows  open,  leaned 
out,  and  spat  after  him,  crying,  "Scab!  Traitor!" 
Maieul  also  was  returning  at  this  hour;  he  had 
left  the  town  behind,  and  was  crossing  the  mounds, 
where  the  scales  of  slate  crackled  under  his  feet 
with  a  sound  like  the  faint  chirp  of  crickets.  He 
walked  slowly,  and  when  the  full  moon  emerged 
from  clouds  which  looked  heavy  and  hot  as  stones 
in  the  glare  of  sunlight,  his  glance  sought  the 


200  davidEebirot 

portal  and  roofs  of  the  school-house,  the  class- 
rooms extending  along  the  road,  and  the  gable 
overlooking  the  neighbouring  house  on  the  left, 
where  Mile.  Renee's  room  was.  He  thought  of 
the  woman  who  had  rejected  his  gift;  he  imag- 
ined Davidee  sleeping,  as  she  must  be  at  that 
hour.  An  intensity  of  feeling,  stronger  than  was 
habitual  with  him,  filled  his  soul  this  evening. 
He  was  dissatisfied  with  himself.  Toward  the 
end  of  the  meeting,  he  had  experienced  a  sensa- 
tion deeper  than  pity  when  the  foreman  had 
turned  pale,  and  on  that  corpse-like  face  a  few 
drops  of  blood  had  trickled  slowly,  as  if  the 
veins  were  wrung  dry.  At  that  moment  he  had 
ceased  to  join  in  the  cries;  shame  and  remorse 
had  swelled  within  him.  It  was  the  memory  of 
his  base  and  sluggish  life  which  rose  from  the 
turbid  depths  of  his  soul  and  overflowed  it.  "  How 
fine  it  is — what  you  are  doing  here!"  he  thought. 
"You  have  joined  two  hundred  men  against  this 
one,  and  you  have  half  murdered  him;  he  has 
but  one  thought  and  one  cry  left,  and  you  look 
on  and  see  him  suffer  because  you  have  not  the 
courage  to  kill  him  outright.  Wliat  will-power 
have  you  of  your  own?  what  energy?  You  make 
no  resistance  when  your  mates  call  on  you.  They 
say  you  have  character;  yes,  because  you  are 
quickly  angered,  but  for  what  reasons  do  you 
get  angry  oftenest?  Are  they  creditable  ones?" 
And  the  thought  of  Davidee  came  to  mingle  with 
his  self-reproach  over  his  past  life.  "You  pre- 
tend to  be  astonished  when  the  demoiselle  from 
the  school  despises  you.     But  she  is  right.     What 


DAVIDEEBIROT  201 

are  you  beside  her,  Maieul !  you,  who  made  love 
to  her  servant?  She  has  a  heart  Hke  little  Jeannie 
Fete-Dieu's;  it  is  proud,  and  you  are  not  much 
compared  with  her."  Pausing  in  the  great 
bramble  patch  close  to  La  Gravelle,  Rit-Dur  re- 
flected first  on  what  a  worthless  being  he  was; 
then  he  thought  how  he  felt  for  this  woman — 
who  was  not  even  from  his  part  of  the  country — 
a  friendship  so  strong,  so  strong,  that  it  roused  a 
fever  in  him.  He  saw,  with  the  eyes  of  his  love, 
those  dark  eyes,  that  pale,  firm  face;  he  saw  her 
hands.  If  he  had  known  how  to  put  his  dream 
into  words  he  would  have  said — and  such  ideas 
did  pass  vaguely  through  his  mind:  "Your 
hands  take  of  themselves  the  gentle  curves  of 
pity;  when  you  clasp  them  together  it  is  as  if 
they  held  a  lighted  lamp.  Is  it  youth?  Is  it 
goodness?  Is  it  pardon  which  you  hold  in  those 
hands?  I  have  never  seen  any  others  so  dehcate 
and  white  and  touching."  But  as  he  was  a  veiy 
simple  fellow  he  found  only  one  small  thing  to 
say,  and  he  said  it  over  and  over  before  the  dis- 
tant vision  of  the  school-house  roofs:  "If  I  held 
that  hand  in  mine  I  should  walk  straight,  very 
straight." 

The  heat  was  penetrating;  it  filtered  through  the 
blades  of  grass,  and  even  the  thistles  drooped  their 
heads.  There  must  have  been  a  thunder-storm  in 
the  distance,  for  in  the  south  the  flashes  of  light- 
ning were  frequent;  but  the  sound  died  out  be- 
fore reaching  where  he  stood,  and  all  seemed  to 
sleep;  and  yet  what  passions  were  awake  amid 
that  silent  scene !    How  many  loves,  hates,  envies, 


202  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

ambitions!  The  suburbs  of  the  town  stretched 
out  their  sparkling  hghts  into  the  night.  When 
Maieul  had  dimbed  his  outer  staircase  and  had 
paused  at  the  top  for  one  last  look  at  the  school, 
a  resolution  which  he  had  been  turning  over  and 
over  in  his  mind  began  to  rise  to  the  surface. 
He  pushed  the  door  open  with  his  shoulder,  re- 
ceiving full  in  his  face  the  icy  air  of  the  closed 
room,  lighted  his  spirit-lamp,  opened  the  window, 
and,  amid  the  hum  of  gnats,  began  to  compose 
a  letter  to  Davidee  Birot. 


CHAPTER  X. 


MAIEUL'S  SONG. 

The  letter  was  not  long;  it  was  as  follows: 

"Mademoiselle: — I  should  be  very  much  hon- 
oured by  having  a  few  words  with  you.  I  cannot 
ask  to  see  you  at  the  school  because  the  other 
teacher  would  insult  me.  And  yet  I  must  see 
you.  There  is  one  thing  I  might  do,  but  I  should 
like,  before  venturing  on  it,  to  ask  you  if  it  will  be 
right.  Mademoiselle,  at  one  o'clock  on  Thurs- 
day next,  which  will  be  the  tenth  of  June,  I  shall 
be  crossing  the  hill  near  the  pit  of  La  Gravelle. 
I  shall  have  with  me  Jeannie  Fete-Dieu  and  a 
Breton  woman  who  comes  from  near  my  old 
home.  If  I  could  meet  you  there  I  should  be 
very  happy.  The  pain  of  having  displeased  you 
hes  heavy  on  my  heart.  I  am.  Mademoiselle, 
with  respect,  your  servant, 

"Maieul  Jacquet." 

"P.  S. — There  will  probably  be  a  strike  on  by 
that  time,  but  that  will  make  no  difference.  When 
I  have  said  a  thing  I  seldom  fail  to  carry  it  out." 

David^e  received  this  letter  by  the  morning 
mail;  she  read  it  through  twice — the  first  time 
with  a  feeling  of  impatience,  but  on  the  second 

203 


204  DAVID:eE   BIROT 

reading  she  reflected  a  little  over  the  words: 
"The  pain  of  having  displeased  you  lies  heavy 
on  my  heart."    And  she  said  to  herself:  "I  will 

go." 

By  Monday  the  strike  had  already  begun;  it 
amounted  to  very  little  at  first;  the  men  gath- 
ered in  groups  about  the  wells,  cursing,  threaten- 
ing, and  attempting  to  gain  over  the  unskilled 
and  lower-paid  men. 

The  slate-cutters,  who  are  the  higher-class 
workmen,  the  aristocrats  of  the  quarry,  had  all 
quitted  work.  Their  huts  looked  as  dead  as  the 
deserted  tents  of  an  army  during  manoeuvres. 
The  slate  had  ceased  to  grind  under  the  knives; 
the  horses,  amazed  to  find  themselves  standing 
idle  in  their  stalls,  stretched  their  necks  each 
time  the  door  opened,  to  see  if  some  one  was 
coming  to  take  down  their  harness  with  its  blue 
tassels,  which  was  hanging  over  their  heads,  and 
seemed  to  ask  each  other:  "^^Tiat  do  you 
want,  old  boy?  See!  the  man  hasn't  touched 
the  harness ;  he  has  only  throwTi  a  handful  of  hay 
into  the  manger,  and  is  going  out  again.  Feast 
away,  stujff  yourself  full,  lazy-bones!  There's 
no  more  work  for  us."  Meanwhile  the  pot- 
houses were  full;  the  topers,  who  at  first  had  all 
shouted  at  once,  were  now  tired  of  talking  and 
of  hearing  others  talk;  above  all,  of  guzzling,  and 
breathing  in  that  wine-reeking  atmosphere.  They 
now  sat  back  against  the  wall,  with  their  heads 
sunk  on  their  breasts  and  their  eyes  fixed  in  a 
vacant  stare  upon  the  indefatigable  orator  who 
was  holding  forth  steadily  without  any  need  of 


DAVIDEEBIROT  205 

relays,  his  Adam's  apple  rising  and  falling  like 
a  weaver's  shuttle,  his  scanty  beard  wagging  with 
the  flow  of  his  eloquence. 

At  home,  the  housewives  were  far  from  con- 
tent, knowing  that  there  would  be  Httle  money 
on  hand  when  pay-day  next  came  round.  They 
kept  mostly  out  of  sight  and  tried  to  find  com- 
fort in  scolding  the  children,  or  in  hiding  in  some 
safe  nook  any  stray  two-franc  pieces  they  found 
Ipng  about  too  conspicuously. 

If  they  were  obHged  to  go  out  to  dry  their  hus- 
band's shirts  in  their  small  clothes  yard  paved 
with  slate,  they  turned  an  anxious  ear  in  the 
direction  of  the  cafe.  Was  the  noise  growing 
louder?  WTiat  was  that  distant  sound  of  shout- 
ing from  the  well  of  La  Fresnais.  "Thank 
Heaven,  it  is  dying  down  again!  Say,  neighbour; 
how  do  3^ou  like  having  a  husband  who  won't 
listen  to  a  word  of  reason?  As  for  me,  it  makes 
my  blood  boil." 

At  the  same  moment  a  troop  of  handsome 
girls  were  promenading  the  streets,  blooming 
young  creatures,  linked  arm  in  arm,  so  that  they 
formed  a  chain  across  the  road,  not  pausing,  but 
slackenmg  their  pace  a  little  where  the  groups  of 
working  men  were  densest.  The  tall  girl  in  the 
centre  wore  a  red  scarf  round  her  white  throat; 
it  was  she  whom  the  men  were  cheering,  while 
their  wives  at  home  listened  anxiously.  Did  the 
sound  come  from  the  well  of  La  Fresnais?  No, 
the  women  had  been  deceived  by  the  direction 
of  the  wind.  It  was  from  the  Plains — ^that  quar- 
ter where  the  town  joins  the  country.     Night 


206  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

was  about  to  fall;  the  twittering  of  sparrows  and 
the  uneasy  cries  of  house-martins  had  superseded 
the  usual  cheerful  sounds  of  men  returning  from 
their  day's  work. 

The  second  day  was  as  still  as  death  until  two 
in  the  afternoon.  The  rain  of  the  morning  had 
ceased.  A  procession  had  formed  in  the  \allage 
of  Justice;  one  group,  carr3dng  a  red  flag,  had 
terrified  the  peaceable  spectators  at  first,  but  was 
soon  augmented  by  a  number  of  them  who  had 
joined  the  throng.  Some  carters  had  been  met 
at  the  outer  limits  of  the  quarries  bringing  in  a 
load  of  slate;  they  were  surrounded  and  beaten, 
the  harnesses  were  cut  and  the  horses  let  loose. 
From  far  and  near  the  rumour  spread  and  terror 
increased.  The  mothers  began  to  look  out  anx- 
iously for  any  child  who  had  strayed  from  home. 
The  executive  committees,  which  had  been  se- 
cretly in  existence  for  a  long  time,  began  to 
emerge  from  the  masses,  who  awaited  their 
orders  and  had  only  changed  masters.  Report- 
ers had  been  seen  in  Ardesie,  and  even  a  gen- 
darme! He  was  not  a  native,  however,  but  a 
harmless  visitor,  taking  a  holiday  walk  with  his 
wife.  But  on  being  greeted  ^\dth  scoffs  and  jibes 
he  began  to  understand  the  situation;  his  wife 
was  alarmed,  but  took  pains  to  smile  whenever 
any  one  looked  at  her,  always  with  the  same 
forced,  deliberate  smile  to  show  that  she  was 
not  afraid.  At  nightfall  a  cartridge  burst  here, 
another  there;  children  awoke  crying  with  fear. 
All  the  men  who  would  have  liked  to  go  on  work- 
ing  were  anxious  for  their  homes.    There  were 


DAVIDEEBIROT  207 

strange  noises  in  the  darkness,  a  heavy  tramp  of 
feet  along  the  road;  but  it  was  not  a  martial  tread. 
The  troops  had  not  yet  arrived;  these  men  tramp- 
ing by  in  the  darkness  were  civilians.  Within 
the  tightly  closed  and  barred  houses  the  old  men 
recognized  voices  outside  and  named  the  strik- 
ers as  they  passed  on  their  way  to  the  meetings. 
"Things  are  going  from  bad  to  worse/'  they  said; 
"these  are  the  bellows  that  blow  the  fire;  to- 
morrow morning  there  will  be  troops  in  Ardesie." 

And,  in  fact,  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day, 
there  was  a  sprinkling  of  poppy-red  among  the 
mounds:  an  infantry  company  was  encamped  on 
the  square  and  in  the  half-ruined  storehouses 
where,  by  night,  owls  chased  the  rats. 

The  reporters  came  to  interrogate  Mile.  Renee, 
and  rang  the  bell  of  the  school-house  door  during 
lessons.  Mile.  Renee  opened  to  them  herself; 
she  was  pale,  but  held  firmly  to  her  resolution 
to  tell  nothing;  to  treat  them  as  if  they  had  come 
on  professional  business.  She  knew  nothing,  ab- 
solutely nothing,  she  said;  "my  duties  have  kept 
me  with  my  pupils." 

Thereupon  the  reporters  proceeded  to  inform 
her  that  dragoons  had  been  patrolhng  the  lines 
of  the  Paris-Orleans  Railroad,  that  soup  distri- 
butions had  been  going  on  since  daybreak,  that 
funds  were  pouring  in  from  Paris,  from  the  north, 
from  the  west.  Then,  when  the  newspaper  men 
were  gone,  it  was  the  children's  turn  to  relate 
what  they  had  heard  at  home.  As  soon  as  the 
teacher  re-entered  the  school-room,  they  all 
raised  their  hands,  as  they  were  in  the  habit  of 


208  DAVIDEEBIROT 

doing  when  asked  a  question  they  could  answer, 
and  the  legend  began  to  form.  How  was  it  pos- 
sible to  oppose  it?  How  punish  them  for  this 
partisan  spirit  which  the  youngest  have  in  their 
blood?  They  all  in  turn  hastened  to  contradict 
or  to  confirm  each  other,  to  mingle  with  this 
opening  drama  the  voices  of  their  homes.  How 
ardent  they  were  already  for  or  against  the  strike ! 
How  one  could  read  their  hearts!  These  inno- 
cents said:  "Yes,  Mademoiselle,  they  have 
sworn  that  if  a  single  workman  is  hurt  there  will 
be  soldiers  killed.  The  slate-cutters  will  join 
hands;  they  will  push  the  soldiers  into  the  great 
pits  which  no  one  ever  comes  out  of  aHve.  It  is 
true.  Mademoiselle;  my  father  said  so.  On  the 
edge  of  the  ancient  pit  near  our  house  the  earth 
is  all  undermined,  ready  to  sink  into  the  pool 
at  the  bottom.  That  is  where  they  will  push 
them,  and  then  they  will  throw  stones;  there 
are  plenty  about — and  bricks  too!  And  there 
are  \\ires  to  trip  up  their  horses  if  they  march 
on  us — and  dynamite  bombs." 

"And  there  are  men  too,  who  don't  want  harm 
done  to  any  one,"  replies  a  fresh  young  voice, 
vibrating  with  emotion.  "My  father  voted  for 
the  strike,  like  the  comrades,  but  he  says  that  if 
they  hurt  a  single  soldier  or  even  a  gendarme, 
he  will  beat  the  cowards."  "Who  are  the  cow- 
ards?" "You!"  Voices  are  raised  in  protest, 
there  are  cries,  then  of  a  sudden  all  is  still.  The 
sound  of  horses'  hoofs  is  heard  under  the  win- 
dows which  open  on  the  high-road.  The  chil- 
dren stand  upon  the  benches,  they  jostle  each 


DAVIDEEBIROT  209 

other.  Through  the  doors  they  can  hear  noises  in 
the  adjoining  room;  there,  too,  they  are  cHmbing 
on  the  tables.  "Mademoiselle,  it  is  the  troops 
going  by.  The  dragoons!  There  are  twenty, 
thirty — no,  thirty-two.  The  officer  doesn't  look 
very  pleasant.  He  has  on  a  pretty  uniform 
though,  and  such  a  little  moustache!  Look  at 
the  rider  over  yonder!  He  is  from  our  way: 
'Francis!'"  And  Francis  has  turned  his  head 
and  shown  his  white  teeth,  his  hand  on  his  horse's 
crupper. 

At  noon  the  teachers  had  decided  to  give 
the  children  their  dinner  at  the  school  instead 
of  sending  them  home  to  their  parents.  "How 
could  one  tell  what  might  happen  at  such  a 
moment?" 

Davidee,  who  was  not  afraid,  went  out  with 
one  of  the  big  girls  to  buy  bread.  They  dined 
as  best  they  could;  the  afternoon  lessons  began 
very  late;  what  did  it  matter?  The  school  had 
become  merely  a  place  of  refuge  for  the  scholars. 
At  half  past  four  the  teachers  led  two  bands  of 
little  girls,  one  toward  the  right,  the  other  to- 
ward the  left,  for  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  and  then 
allowed  them  to  disperse  among  the  lanes  and 
by-paths  between  the  mounds  where,  to  the  east, 
men  were  still  gathering  in  throngs. 

The  heat  had  become  torrid.  The  assistant 
mounted  to  an  attic  above  Mile.  Renee's  room, 
where  there  was  a  dormer-window  commanding 
a  view  of  the  country,  whence  she  could  see  the 
scarred  blue  earth,  the  workshops,  the  little 
orchards  nestling  between  the  slate  mounds,  the 


210  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

ruins  of  the  old  abandoned  pits,  and  the  tracks 
which  could  be  divined  by  the  paler  line  of  turf. 

Piles  of  stacked  muskets  were  gleaming  on 
the  square  of  Ardesie,  the  foot-soldiers  sleeping 
beside  them.  An  officer  could  be  seen  standing 
on  guard  in  the  distance,  his  figure  outlined 
against  the  sky,  which  had  the  tint  of  hot  ashes. 
He  was  looking  through  his  field-glass.  Black 
dots,  which  were  slate-cutters  in  motion,  isolated 
or  in  groups,  were  \dsible  mounting  and  descend- 
ing the  mounds  in  the  direction  in  which  the 
oflScer  had  turned  his  glass.  It  was  that  first 
week  of  June,  when  the  grass  in  the  mowing-lots 
turns  rose-red  at  the  tips.  The  meadows  lay 
sleeping,  ripe  and  warm,  in  the  evening  air. 

Horny-handed  lads  whom  the  strike  had  turned 
into  loafers,  were  trampling  down  the  tall  grain, 
careless  of  the  harvest  which  was  not  for  them. 
They  stooped  now  and  then  to  pluck  daisies  for  girls 
who  were  in  w^ait  for  them  at  the  turnpike-gates. 

At  last  the  tenth  of  Jmie  arrived.  It  was  a 
Thursday  and  the  feast  of  Corpus  Christi.  Luckily 
the  children  had  a  holiday.  Would  they  return 
to  school  on  the  morrow?  Who  could  say?  With- 
out their  fathers  or  mothers,  without  the  reas- 
suring tenderness  of  home,  they  would  doubtless 
be  terrified  by  the  great  uproar  filling  the  air, 
the  hoarse  cries,  the  tnunpet  calls,  the  hootings 
which  threaten  some  victim — no  one  knows  whom 
— the  imposing  march  of  processions  through  the 
hollow  roads  of  Ardesie.  None  of  these  noises 
proceeded  from  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of 
the  school,  but  they  broke  out  on  all  sides. 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  211 

The  school-house,  with  a  few  cottages  around 
it,  formed  a  sort  of  island  amid  the  rising  tide. 
Mile.  Renee  was  keeping  her  room,  under  pretext 
of  a  headache,  and  would  not  be  down  till  the 
mid-day  breakfast.  It  was  Davidee  who  went 
out  to  fetch  the  milk;  for  the  farmer's  wife  from 
La  Mouronnerie  had  not  passed  that  morning, 
seated  in  her  little  cart  amid  her  tin  cans,  rais- 
ing her  hooded  head  and  calling:  "Fresh  milk! 
Fresh  milk!"  This  was  a  bad  sign.  She  must 
have  taken  a  shorter  cut  to  town  to  avoid  the 
winding  lanes  among  the  quarries  where  the 
strikers  were  in  force.  When  the  assistant  pushed 
open  the  gate  of  La  Mouronnerie  and  entered 
the  court-yard,  holding  in  her  hand  her  well- 
scoured  earthen  jug,  she  was  roughly  greeted  by 
the  farmer's  maid,  who  was  badly  frightened, 
though  she  had  not  lost  the  ruddy  hues  which 
glowed  equally  on  her  cheeks,  her  arms,  and  hands. 

"Shut  the  gate  closer  than  that,  Ma'm'selle! 
You  must  know  that  they  have  been  firing  around 
here  all  night.    No?    Did  you  sleep  through  it  all?" 

"Yes,  pretty  nearly." 

"Good  Lord!  What!  with  those  bombs  going 
off,  and  the  stones  whizzing  through  the  air? 
Well,  don't  go  to  sleep  now!  They  say  that  the 
big  fight  is  coming  off  this  afternoon." 

"Why  are  you  trembling  so,  Mariette?  Your 
fright  prevents  your  giving  me  good  measure." 

But  the  girl  refused  to  smile.  "You  are  new 
to  this  business,  Ma'm'selle,"  she  said.  "You 
don't  know  yet  that  in  a  strike  it  is  always  the 
women  who  weep." 


212  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

Davidee  returned  to  the  school  more  agitated 
than  she  cared  to  show.  She  walked  with  meas- 
ured steps  and  head  cast  down,  apparently  ab- 
sorbed in  contemplation  of  the  white  full-moon 
of  milk  oscillating  in  her  jug.  But  in  reality 
she  was  pondering  intently  over  the  rendez- 
vous she  had  promised  for  the  morrow.  Was  it 
possible  that  at  one  o'clock  she  would  be  climb- 
ing the  high  embankment  overlooking  the  whole 
wide  expanse  of  the  slate  country?  To  await 
Maieul  there  would  have  been  a  daring  act  of 
charity  even  a  week  ago,  now  it  had  become  the 
height  of  imprudence;  and,  after  all,  would  it  not 
be  a  useless  risk?  Maieul  might  not  be  free, 
as  by  reason  of  his  great  physical  strength,  as 
well  as  of  the  ascendency  which  he  exercised  over 
his  comrades,  he  was  one  who  could  not  be  spared 
from  the  strikers'  battahon.  They  would  not 
suffer  him  to  go. 

The  young  girl  had  reached  the  school-house 
door  when  the  thought  of  Mile.  Renee,  sick  with 
terror,  brought  a  smile  to  her  lips,  and  finally  de- 
cided her.  "No,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I  will 
not  miss  this  meeting.  I  have  given  m}^  prom- 
ise, and  Maieul  would  never  have  written  to  me 
without  some  serious  reason.  He  may  have  a 
service  to  ask  of  me.  He  may  have  received 
tidings  of  Phrosine,  which  might  be  dangerous 
for  him,  but  will  be  so  no  longer  when  he  has  told 
me.  And  even  if  he  merely  intends  to  renew 
his  declaration  of  the  other  day,  and  express  his 
feelings  toward  me,  I  shall  not  regret  ha\ing  met 
him,  for  I  shall  make  him  understand  that  I  am 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  213 

not  like  some  women,  that  I  can  guard  myself — 
for  whom  I  know  not — ^perhaps  for  a  Ufe  of 
solitude  only,  but  a  sohtude  at  least  free  from 
remorse."  She  pushed  open  the  Httle  chestnut- 
wood  door,  framed  in  the  great  portal,  and  turn- 
ing for  a  final  glance  over  the  expanse  of  stony, 
desolate,  blue-gra}^  landscape  around  her,  she 
thought  again:  "What  a  strange  destiny  mine 
is!  I  have  been  forced  to  take  sides  against  a 
pair  of  lovers  and  have  made  them  my  friends 
by  my  very  severity,  or  if  they  are  not  my  friends, 
I  am  their  confidante,  which  is  no  less  compro- 
mising." 

By  half-past  twelve,  Da\ddee,  having  washed 
the  breakfast  dishes  and  set  them  away  on  the 
closet  shelves,  had  gone  up  to  her  room  to  put  on 
a  straw-hat,  her  last  summer's  hat  newly  trimmed, 
which  looked  like  an  inverted  harebell.  She  was 
on  her  way  downstairs  when  she  came  face  to 
face  with  Mile.  Renee  looking  doleful  and  dishev- 
elled, and  holding  a  cup  of  tea  in  her  hand. 

"You  are  going  out,  Mademoiselle?"  she  cried. 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

"I  thought  I  heard  you  in  your  room  and 
wished  to  make  sure.  You  are  actually  going 
out  into  the  midst  of  a  strike?" 

"I  wish  to  see  it  nearer." 

"And  wearing  that  white  hat!" 

"I  have  no  red  one." 

"It  is  simple  madness." 

The  tone  was  so  tragic  that  David^e  could 
hardly  refrain  from  laughing  outright.  But  the 
inclination  left  her  when  she  had  once  more  closed 


214  DAVIDEE    BIROT 

the  school-house  door,  and  was  fairly  on  her  way 
to  the  rendezvous.  She  turned  at  first  toward 
Tr^laze,  then  having  crossed  the  square  of  Ar- 
desie,  which  was  occupied  by  a  detachment  of 
troopS;  she  bore  to  the  left,  and  choosing  the 
short  cuts  through  the  quarries,  which  the  strik- 
ers used,  she  had  soon  reached  the  region  of  steep, 
abandoned  mounds.  Thus  far  she  had  encoun- 
tered only  a  few  workmen,  placed  as  pickets 
outside  the  workshops,  a  group  of  women  here 
and  there,  and  a  couple  of  children — for  them 
there  was  no  strike — picking  Easter  daisies  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill.  Now  there  was  no  longer 
a  being  in  sight  and  she  was  alone  on  the  high 
plateau,  overgrown  with  gorse  and  thorn-trees, 
whose  seams  and  furrows  were  filled  with  water 
from  the  long-abandoned  quarries,  and  from 
whose  heights  the  new  slate  works  were  visible. 
Here  was  the  abandoned  pit  of  La  Gravelle,  with 
its  deep  sombre  pool,  and  beyond  it  rose  the 
sparsely  grown  woodland  to  which  Maieul  had 
referred  in  his  letter,  saying:  "At  one  o'clock 
I  will  be  in  the  thicket  of  La  Gravelle." 

Davidee  had  climbed  so  rapidly  that  it  still 
lacked  ten  minutes  of  the  appointed  hour.  She 
entered  the  grove,  and  approaching  its  further 
edge,  she  peered  out  between  the  bare  boughs. 
Everywhere  before  her  and  beneath  her  lay 
stretched  the  barren  lowlands  with  their  work- 
yards  and  wells,  their  ponderous  machinery  and 
scattered  houses;  the  whole  busy,  dusty,  noisy 
region  which  was  to  be  the  scene  of  the  approach- 
ing conflict. 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  215 

Why  had  she  met  so  few  people  on  her  way? 
She  knew  the  reason  now.  The  thronging  masses 
were  below  her,  beyond  the  valley,  amid  the 
deserted  work-yards  and  neglected  piles  of  slate; 
yonder  where  the  slopes  began  to  rise  again,  and 
where  blue-gray  walls  and  roads,  and  masses 
of  debris  surrounded  the  gaunt  scaffolding  of  the 
quarry  wells.  Above  the  valley  rose  a  confused 
murmur  which  spread  over  the  mounds  and  across 
the  fields;  no  words  could  be  distinguished;  the 
air  carried  only  a  jumble  of  discordant  notes  and 
disconnected  fragments  of  speech  which  did  not 
blend.  All  at  once  a  great  cry  arose  and  was 
borne  upward  on  the  wind.  Ah!  this  time  they 
have  all  shouted  the  same  words.  Davidee  can 
make  out  their  meaning.  "Down  with  Tremart! 
Death  to  traitors!"  It  is  impossible  that  Maieul 
should  be  coming,  he  must  be  one  of  that  dark 
swarm,  fiUing  the  road  and  besieging  the  enclos- 
ure around  the  quarry  mine.  Assembled  before 
the  door  which  opened  each  morning  for  the 
day's  work,  but  which  is  tightly  barred  now, 
were  the  quarrymen,  their  wives,  and  a  swarm 
of  children.  This  living  mass  was  moved  by 
sudden  impulses;  it  eddied  hither  and  thither, 
advanced,  recoiled,  scattered,  and  collected  again 
without  any  reason  apparent  to  the  on-looker. 
Even  with  a  field-glass  Davidee  could  not  have 
recognized  the  faces,  but  she  could  recognize  at- 
titudes. There  was  Madeleine  Bunat's  father, 
there  was  Guillemotte,  whose  daughter  was  in 
the  upper  class,  and  those  gigantic  arms  and 
shoulders  over  there,  which  hide  several  others. 


216  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

and  rise  like  one  of  the  monumental  stones  at 
the  entrance  to  the  works,  must  belong  to  Geboin 
or  Le  Derf .  On  the  further  side  of  the  wall,  half- 
way up  the  slope  of  the  hill  crowded  by  machine- 
shops,  a  detachment  of  dragoons  was  drawn  up, 
motionless  in  their  saddles,  guarding  the  flight 
of  steps  leading  up  to  the  works;  further  down, 
the  works  were  defended  by  squads  of  infantry; 
officers  dashed  back  and  forth  between  them. 
Ah!  there  was  another  cry.  A  handful  of  sol- 
diers, making  a  ladder  of  each  others'  shoulders, 
attempted  to  scale  the  wall;  they  fell  back,  a  roar 
deep  and  full  of  passion  greeted  their  fall.  Then 
stones  must  have  been  flung  at  the  troops;  the 
lines  wavered,  horses  reared,  a  party  of  besiegers 
filed  along  under  the  shelter  of  the  wall,  in  search 
of  some  weak  spot  in  the  long  enclosure  where 
they  could  make  their  way  into  the  shops.  Davi- 
dee  followed  them  with  her  eyes,  saying  to  her- 
self: "Maieul  must  be  somewhere  in  the  midst 
of  that  torrent."  She  saw  in  imagination  the 
carbines  lowered,  the  first  ranks  of  the  assailants 
fallmg,  the  others  scahng  the  hill,  and  then  flames; 
a  mighty  colunrn  of  flame  rising  from  the  rafters 
steeped  in  petroleum,  and  she  shivered  with  ter- 
ror at  the  picture  she  had  conjured  up.  She  was 
amazed  at  the  stoHdity  of  the  crowd  opposite  her, 
on  the  further  heights,  who  had  apparently  come 
as  lookers-on  at  a  show;  one  would  have  supposed 
that  they  had  hired  seats  for  the  occasion.  They 
thronged  the  orchards  bordering  the  road,  where 
they  formed  patches  of  bright  colour;  there  were 
women  with  gay  parasols  and  summer  hats,  look- 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  217 

ing  as  if  a  bed  of  gillyflowers  had  suddenly  sprung 
up  on  those  far-away  terraces.  And  above  this 
scene,  high  into  the  air,  rose  the  gaunt  scaffold- 
ing of  the  quarry  wells,  with  their  cables,  their 
immense  pulleys,  the  chambers  containing  the 
windlasses,  pumps,  and  dynamos;  the  wealth  and 
power,  in  short,  against  which  this  whole  assault 
is  directed.  The  mob  no  longer  cried  "Down 
with  Tremart!"  No  petty  new  grievance  could 
have  such  power  over  them.  This  is  the  old 
leaven  which  has  always  stirred  the  masses;  the 
revolt  against  masters,  the  rage  to  seize  and  to 
destroy,  the  memory,  perhaps,  of  a  cruel  word 
spoken  by  a  dead  foreman  to  his  workmen — all 
of  whom  are  now  dead — the  promise  of  new  social 
conditions  and  a  new  prosperity,  a  reversal  of 
the  whole  situation,  the  present  system  of  equahty 
destroyed  for  the  exclusive  benefit  of  the  labour- 
ing class. 

Davidee,  kneehng  on  the  edge  of  the  embank- 
ment, leaning  forward  beyond  the  shelter  of  the 
wood,  exposed  to  wind  and  sun,  suffered  and 
trembled  and  longed  to  throw  herself  between 
the  combatants.  She  reviewed  hastily  in  her 
mind  the  names  of  those  she  knew  in  that  melee. 
"My  quarrymen  are  all  mad  with  rage,  the 
fathers  and  brothers  of  my  little  ones  are  there. 
If  there  might  only  be  none  killed  among  them, 
or  among  the  others  in  that  throng!  for  though 
my  heart  is  more  concerned  for  those  I  know,  I 
pity  them  all.  Ah,  there  is  a  shot  fired!  An- 
other! They  were  fired  outside  the  gate  of  the 
enclosure  by  some  of  the  workmen.     Now  all 


218  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

are  in  wild  movement,  besiegers  and  besieged. 
The  scarlet  trousers  are  advancing  upon  the  black 
mass  which  has  grown  enormously  on  the  right 
— and  to  the  left.  Ah!  there  the  dragoons  are 
descending  slowly  with  measured  steps,  for  the 
mob  has  burst  into  the  workshops.  An  order 
has  been  given:  'Draw  sabres!'  and  the  troops 
charge  on  the  trot  upon  the  band  which  has 
turned  the  wall  and  leaped  into  the  enclosure. 
They  plunge  into  that  howling  mass  which  flings 
itself  upon  them,  which  wounds,  and  is  wounded. 
Stones  are  fl3^ng,  I  can  see  them  from  here.  The 
workmen  take  refuge  behind  their  wind-breaks; 
they  are  overturning  carts.  Ah !  there  are  women 
among  them.  A  few  years  hence  my  old  pupils 
may  be  doing  the  like.  They  are  driven  back 
and  a  cloud  of  dust  has  hidden  them.  There  is 
wild  disorder  in  the  crowd  along  the  road  and 
amid  the  orchards — and  it  is  the  'International' 
with  its  assumed  airs  of  a  religion  of  humanity, 
which  presides  over  all  these  horrors!  I  can  no 
longer  see  what  has  happened,  the  dense  clouds 
of  dust  hide  everything.  But  the  infantry  also 
seem  to  have  repulsed  the  assailants.  The  crowd 
of  spectators  in  the  orchards  are  cheering.  \Miom 
are  they  cheering?"  And  in  order  to  see  more 
clearly,  Davidee  rose  and  stood  up  on  the  outer 
edge  of  the  grove.  What  had  happened?  Pierc- 
ing cries  could  be  heard  from  the  throng  besieg- 
ing the  entrance-gates,  and  all  faces  were  now 
turned  in  the  direction  of  the  orchard  slopes 
and  the  valley,  and  of  Davidee  where  she  stood 
watching. 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  219 

"What  are  they  gazing  at?  Ah,  there  is  a  man 
who  breaks  away  from  the  black  mass  of  the 
strikers  and  starts  down  the  road  on  a  run !  Three 
men  are  after  him,  four,  five.  They  have  caught 
him?  No,  he  has  sprung  into  a  field.  They 
are  Hke  a  pack  of  hounds  after  their  prey!  He 
dashes  across  the  stubble  with  his  pursuers  at  his 
heels;  he  has  gained  on  them;  no,  he  is  losing 
ground.  Unhappy  wretch!  It  must  be  Tremart 
whom  they  have  discovered  and  who  has  made 
a  desperate  effort  to  escape.  He  has  reached  a 
hedge,  he  is  caught  in  the  thorns.  There !  he  has 
fallen.  The  men  have  hurled  themselves  upon 
him  with  their  sticks  raised.  They  are  beating 
him,  they  will  kill  him!" 

At  that  moment  the  mob  cries:  "Rit-Dur! 
Rit-Dur!  Seize  him!"  It  is  no  longer  five  men 
who  surround  the  fallen  Maieul;  it  is  at  least 
a  hundred  strikers  who  have  poured  down  the 
slope.  The  victim  could  no  longer  be  distin- 
guished from  his  assailants,  for  the  whole  throng 
was  in  motion  and  the  field  was  wrapt  in  a  cloud 
of  dust. 

Davidee  had  fled  through  the  wood.  She  ran 
as  far  as  the  fields  of  broom  beyond,  and  thence 
began  to  descend  the  slopes  toward  Ardesie, 
avoiding  the  houses,  in  haste,  and  deadly  pale. 

Wild  thoughts  surged  within  her:  "Is  it  pos- 
sible? They  have  wounded  Maieul,  killed  him, 
perhaps?  And  I  am  the  cause!  I  know  it,  I 
feel  it;  he  has  not  betrayed  his  comrades,  no! 
But  he  gave  his  promise  to  a  village  school- 
teacher, saying:   'At  one  o'clock  I  will  be  in  the 


220  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

wood  of  La  Gravelle';  and  he  would  not  fail  to 
keep  his  word.  I  am  the  cause  of  it  all.  He  is 
like  me,  this  Maieul;  when  he  has  promised  no 
obstacle  can  stop  him.  Who  can  give  me  news 
of  him?  I  cannot  go  about  asking  it,  for  they 
are  fighting  in  the  streets,  and  the  soldiers  guard 
the  roads." 

The  tumult  passed,  as  the  storms  of  winter 
pass,  always,  always!  The  girl  reached  the 
school-house,  sick  with  anxiety,  and  not  wishing 
to  shut  herself  up  in  her  chamber  at  the  other 
end  of  the  house,  she  entered  the  lower  class- 
room, and,  standing  on  a  chair,  supported  herself 
against  the  window  railing.  In  that  position 
she  could  see  the  passers-by  and  ask  news  of 
them.  But  the  road  was  deserted,  she  could  not 
see  the  valley;  she  had  before  her  only  the  strag- 
gling hedge,  the  bare  pastures,  and  the  deserted 
slate  mounds.  A  cloud  of  dust  was  floating  in 
the  air  about  the  mine  well  which  was  out  of 
sight.  Fighting  must  still  be  going  on.  At  mo- 
ments all  the  distant  country  beyond  the  line  of 
vision  seemed  shaken  as  by  a  tempest;  she  could 
feel  beneath  her  feet  the  trembling  of  the  earth 
imder  the  gallop  of  horses  and  the  flight  of  im- 
mense throngs.  She  kept  repeating  to  herself: 
"It  was  for  me  that  he  took  such  risks,  that  he 
ran  and  fell!"  All  at  once,  beyond  the  houses 
adjoining  the  school,  Davidee  caught  a  glimpse  of 
a  woman  timidly  crossing  the  place,  and  called 
to  her.  But  the  woman  motioned  back  that  she 
was  in  haste  and  did  not  care  to  linger  on  her 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  221 

way  home.  About  four  o'clock  Mariette,  the 
dairy-maid,  passed,  leading  two  cows  from  past- 
ure and  pricking  them  with  a  pitch-fork  to  make 
them  go  faster. 

"Are  there  any  wounded,  Mariette?" 

"Yes,  several." 

"Are  any  dead?" 

"So  they  say." 

The  girl  had  already  passed  the  school  when 
she  turned  back  to  cr}^: 

"I  told  you  it  was  the  women  who  weep!  Shut 
your  window !  Go  in  and  pray,  if  you  know  how !" 
She  was  angry,  remembering  that  Davidee  had 
laughed  at  her  that  morning.  A  little  later,  an 
ambulance  passed  on  the  trot,  and  the  soldier 
who  was  dri\dng  the  horse,  seeing  a  pretty  face 
at  the  window,  cracked  his  whip. 

"Have  you  any  news  of  a  man  named  Maieul 
Jacquet?" 

The  soldier  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
shouted  "Gee,"  and  lashed  his  horse  instead  of 
cracking  his  whip  in  the  air. 

Then,  as  evening  stole  on,  there  came  a  calm. 
The  noise  of  voices,  the  distant  sound  of  tumult 
died  aw^ay,  though  the  dust  continued  to  hang 
over  the  distant  prospect.  Davidee  reahzed  that 
the  combatants  had  gone  quietly  home  to  their 
suppers.  This  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  happens 
in  civil  risings  before  actual  war  has  broken  out. 
She  hastened  out,  and  ran  as  far  as  the  church, 
which  is  but  a  short  distance  from  the  mounds 
of  La  Gravelle;  she  entered  a  cottage  near  by 
where  the  woman  of  the  house  was  terrified  at 


222  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

first  by  her  entrance,  but  smiled  on  recognizing 
her  and  asked  pardon: 

"I  am  lighting  the  fire  to  boil  my  soup,  as  you 
see,  Mademoiselle  Davidee.  I  was  not  expecting 
to  see  you.  How  flushed  you  are!  Has  there 
been  any  disaster  at  your  house?" 

The  assistant  was  ashamed  at  having  shown 
so  much  feeling.  She  turned  toward  the  door 
and,  raising  one  arm  above  her  head,  rested  her 
hand  against  the  wall  and  drew  a  long  breath, 
as  children  do  when  they  have  been  playing  on 
the  way  home.  "I  have  run  too  fast,"  she  said; 
"I  am  not  brave  enough.  Tell  me.  Mere  Jumele, 
is  it  true  that  a  man  has  been  killed?" 

"You  mean  Rit-Dur?" 

"Yes,  he  was  wounded,  I  know." 

"So  severely,  my  dear,  that  he  was  brought 
home  on  a  litter.  His  head  was  bloody  and  his 
eyes  closed,  and  he  remained  three  hours  with- 
out opening  them." 

"What  did  the  doctor  say?" 

"No  doctor  came." 

"Why  not?" 

"None  was  called!  The  quarrymen  attend 
to  those  matters  among  themselves.  Maieul  had 
hardly  regained  consciousness  when  he  asked  to 
speak,  not  to  a  doctor,  mind  you!  but  to  the 
strike-leaders;  he  said:  'I  want  justice  done  me. 
They  shall  know  why  I  threw  up  the  game;  I 
was  not  betraying  them.  Am  I  a  traitor?'  That's 
what  he  said." 

"And  what  did  the  leaders  do?" 

"Two  of  them  came.    They  held  a  council  at 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  223 

his  house,  you  know,  up  there  at  the  pavilion. 
It  seems  they  answered  him:  'Rit-Dur,  it  is  you 
who  are  in  the  right.'  But  what  other  words 
were  spoken,  nobody  knows.  Now  he  is  in  a 
high  fever,  and  the  Breton  grandmothers  are 
watching  with  him;  no  one  knows  whether  he 
will  recover." 

Mere  Jumele,  who  had  succeeded  in  kindling 
her  green  fagots,  now  approached  Davidee,  and 
having  assured  herself  that  there  were  no  lis- 
teners on  the  road  outside,  within  earshot  of  her 
whisper,  said: 

"For  my  part.  Mademoiselle  Davidee,  I  beheve 
it  is  some  idea  about  a  woman  that  has  brought 
that  poor  fellow  to  his  ruin." 

Davidee  looked  out  toward  the  mound  of  La 
Gravelle  half  lost  in  shadow,  and  at  a  star  just 
rising  above  its  slope. 

"There  are  women  who  ruin  and  women  who 
save,"  she  answered. 

And  the  housewife  rejoined,  as  she  went  back 
to  her  hearth: 

"All  the  same,  if  I  were  in  that  woman's  place 
1  shouldn't  feel  easy." 

Davidee  did  not  feel  easy  as  she  walked  back 
through  the  ominous  darkness.  She  slept  badly. 
Troops  of  strikers  marched  along  the  road  sing- 
ing. She  had  but  one  desire;  for  daylight  to 
come  and  bring  news  of  Maieul.  She  said  to 
herself:  "It  is  the  suffering  of  others  that  changes 
one.  No,  I  am  not  the  cause  of  it;  no,  I  have 
done  him  no  wrong;  no,  I  am  not  in  love  with 
him;  but  since  they  have  wounded  him,  my  heart 


224  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

has  been  full  of  this  Maieul  and  sick  with  pity 
for  him." 

Three  days  passed :  It  was  reported  that  he  was 
a  httle  better,  and  that  he  had  been  seen  on 
Sunday  evening  taking  the  air  on  his  balcony. 
But  the  women  added:  "He  looks  like  a  corpse 
come  to  hfe."  The  stiike  was  not  over,  but  was 
dragging  along,  empty  of  the  passion  with  which 
it  started.  The  processions  of  strikers  and  patrols 
of  troopers  came  into  collision  less  frequently. 
Many  of  the  strikers  were  at  work  in  the  hay-fields ; 
their  wives  no  longer  dared  to  ask  for  credit  from 
the  bakers  and  sent  their  children  in  their  place. 
On  the  fourth  day,  just  before  noon,  Davidee, 
who  had  accompanied  a  party  of  pupils  beyond 
the  church,  because  the  mothers  feared  to  let 
them  go  alone,  was  returning  along  the  familiar 
road  where  there  were  only  scattered  houses  on 
one  side.  How  many  times  she  had  tramped 
this  dusty  route,  how  often  her  eyes  had  scanned 
this  dreary  prospect  of  poor  roofs  and  straggling 
bushes!  She  no  longer  noticed  them,  but  walked 
along  seeing  nothing  but  her  own  thoughts.  At 
that  moment  she  was  thinking  of  the.  dreary 
expanse  of  summer  weeks  stretching  before  her, 
when  the  heat  sets  one's  blood  on  fire;  of  the 
silence  of  the  mornings,  noons,  and  evenings,  in 
that  school-house,  between  two  teachers  who 
were  enemies.  The  sun  was  scorching,  and  the 
mud  of  former  winters,  ground  to  powder  along 
the  road,  was  turning  Davidee's  skirts  a  dingy 
gray.  She  almost  gained  the  school  when  she 
suddenly  paused: 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  225 

"Mademoiselle  Davidee!" 

The  side  of  the  road  where  there  were  no 
houses  was  divided  from  the  pastm'es  and  stony 
stubble-fields  by  strips  of  hedge  connected  by  a 
rusty  ware  fence.  It  was  from  this  direction 
that  the  call  came.  Davidee  recognized  at  once 
the  voice  of  Maieul  Jacquet,  and  turned  toward 
him.  He  was  standing  a  Httle  below  the  road, 
and  was  obliged  to  raise  his  head  to  see  who 
was  approaching.  Oh,  that  poor  bruised  and 
scarred  face,  white  with  suffering!  Those  hol- 
low eyes,  from  which  his  ardent  youth  seemed 
to  have  vanished!  His  head  was  wrapped  in 
bandages  and  his  working- jacket  showed  on  one 
shoulder  a  straggling,  badly-mended  darn,  where 
a  wound  had  been.  He  was  leaning  with  both 
hands  upon  a  stick.  "I  couldn't  come  that  other 
day.  Mademoiselle  Davidee.  You  must  forgive 
me!"  he  said. 

"How  they  have  wounded  you!" 

"Oh,  yes,  a  little." 

"They  might  have  killed  you." 

"I  don't  bear  them  any  grudge.  They  were 
within  their  rights;  they  thought  I  had  betrayed 
them.  But  it  is  all  made  up  between  us.  I 
explained  to  them " 

"What  did  you  say?  That  you  had  an  ap- 
pointment with  me?" 

His  face  darkened  at  her  suspicion,  as  he  an- 
swered: 

"I  spoke  another's  name,  as  you  may  think." 
And  they  kept  silence  for  a  long  moment,  with 
the  thought  of  Phrosine  between  them.  Then  he 
spoke  again. 


226  DAVIDEEBIROT 

"I  am  leaving  here  on  her  account." 

"You  are  going  to  join  her?" 

"Not  I!  Mademoiselle  Davidee,  do  not  turn 
from  me  in  anger  as  you  are  doing !  Do  not  leave 
me!  Do  not  go  back  to  school!  I  am  wretched 
enough  as  it  is."  These  last  words  had  the  power 
to  arrest  Davidee.  She  had  already  passed  Maieul, 
and  her  eyes  were  bent  once  more  upon  the  school- 
house  and  the  daily  duties  awaiting  her  there. 

"Say  quickly  what  you  have  to  say  to  me," 
she  answered.    "They  are  looking  for  me." 

"It  is  not  so  with  me!  No  one  is  looking  for 
me,  here,  nor  elsewhere.  There  where  I  am  going 
to  the  Combree  region,  a  dozen  leagues  from  here, 
I  know  nobody.  And  yet  it  was  I  who  begged 
to  be  transferred  to  the  quarry  of  La  Foret.  I 
asked  it,  some  time  before  the  strike,  because 
I  cannot  hold  on  here.  I  don't  want  to  offend 
you,  but  you  see,  here  in  Ardesie  now,  all  alone, 
I  am  caught  in  my  memories  as  in  a  thicket.  I 
cannot  even  do  my  work  well.  I  no  longer  care 
for  the  slate.  The  mates  say  to  me:  'You  were 
not  so  gloomy,  Maieul,  in  the  house  on  the 
Plains!'" 

"And  is  it  true?" 

"Yes,  it's  true.  You  cannot  understand,  a 
girl  like  you.  But,  all  the  same,  it's  you  who 
parted  us.  So  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I'm 
going  away  and  that  I  do  not  lay  it  up  against 
you;  that  in  the  depths  of  my  heart  I  am  glad, 
after  all,  that  I  no  longer  love  her.  Oh,  no,  no! 
Only " 

"^Vhatisitthen?" 

"I  still  fear  her." 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  227 

At  this,  he  thought  she  was  going  away  without 
making  him  any  answer;  that  he  was  going  to 
lose  her,  and  he  added  hurriedly: 

"You  know  all  now,  and  you  must  despise  me." 
To  his  surprise  she  did  not  leave  him.  She  re- 
mained standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and 
bending  her  head  a  little,  looked,  not  unkindly, 
at  the  man  who  was  thus  humiliating  himself. 
She  did  not  wish  to  be  hard  on  him;  she  was  used 
to  encouraging  her  pupils  when  they  confessed 
their  faults,  and  she  now  said : 

"You  are  mistaken,  I  do  not  despise  you.  I 
believe  that  you  are  doing  right." 

"Since  you  say  so,  I  shall  have  more  courage. 
Mademoiselle  Davidee,  but  I  am  a  poor  sort,  I 
fear." 

"I  am  poor,  too;  there  are  many  ways  of  being 
so." 

"Since  I  lost  my  father  and  mother  no  one 
has  ever  reproved  me  when  I  did  wrong.  You 
were  the  very  first.  I  am  more  grieved  over  the 
child's  death  than  I  can  ever  tell  you." 

And  as  Davidee  did  not  go  away,  as  she  was 
before  his  eyes  for  a  short  minute  more  and  her 
eyes  were  full  of  the  kindness  which  listens  will- 
ingly, he  grew  bolder  and,  with  a  gesture  to  show 
her  his  wounded  head,  he  added: 

"And  so  I  am  off!  But  when  I  am  quite  cured 
in  eveiy  way,  may  I  not  see  you  again?  Madem- 
oiselle Davidee,  I  have  never  known  your  equal." 

"Is  that  so  wonderful?  I  do  not  come  from 
about  here,  you  know." 

"  When  you  pass,  the  trees  bend  for  love  of  you." 


228  DAVIDEEBIROT 

"Oh,  no,  Monsieur  Maieiil;  it  is  the  wind  that 
bends  them." 

"The  children  on  the  road,  as  far  off  as  they 
can  see  you,  send  their  hearts  out  to  you." 

"And  I  do  the  same  in  return;  I  belong  to 
them." 

"We  all  know  that  you  love  only  them.  You 
are  not  like  other  school-mistresses " 

And  as  she  stood  motionless,  still  bending 
toward  him,  he  ventured  to  say  once  more: 

"AATien  I  have  shown  that  I  am  capable  of 
living  like  an  honest  man,  may  I  not  see  you 
again?" 

She  made  no  answer,  but  turned  very  white, 
and  resumed  her  way  far  more  slowly  than  she 
had  come. 

All  that  afternoon  Davidee's  time  was  very 
full:  hearing  lessons,  receiving  parents,  preparing 
songs  for  a  festival  that  was  soon  to  come  off, 
and  getting  dinner,  as  it  was  her  week  for  keeping 
house.  When  night  came,  weary  as  she  was, 
she  could  not  sleep.  She  sat  for  a  long  time  at 
her  open  window  thinking  of  MaieuFs  departure 
and  the  words  he  had  said  to  her.  Some  of  these 
words  were  new  to  her  ears,  but  scarcely  had 
she  dared  to  take  pleasure  in  them  when  others 
recurred  to  her  memory— cruel  words— which  he 
had  also  spoken:  "I  still  fear  her."  Then  all 
the  sweetness  died  away. 

It  was  hard  for  Davidee  to  distinguish,  in  the 
shadows,  the  school-house  garden  from  that  of  the 
next  neighbour,  or  from  a  poor  \ineyard  beyond, 
whose  rows  of  vines  stretched  into  the  darkness 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  229 

like  the  furrows  in  a  ploughed  field.  But  this 
was  enough  to  bring  the  whole  of  Ard^sie  before 
her  mind's  eye;  all  its  fields  and  roads,  its  ham- 
lets, the  daily  work  and  the  familiar  faces. 

Some  one  was  about  to  leave  this  corner  of 
the  earth,  where  peace  was  no  longer  possible 
to  him,  because  of  old  words  spoken  here.  How 
many  broken  lives  there  had  been!  She  could 
not  rid  herself  of  a  thought  which  recurred  as 
persistently  as  the  refrain  of  a  song:  "These 
are  his  last  hours  here.  Like  Phrosine,  he  will 
go  at  break  of  day."  The  earth,  steeped  in 
dew,  brought  to  her  window  the  odour  it  gives  out 
after  rain,  and  the  silence  was  so  deep  that  she 
could  hear  the  drops  trickle  from  the  leaves. 

It  was  just  before  daybreak — the  hour  when 
the  earth  was  still  dark  beneath  a  paling  sky- 
that  Davidee,  who  had  thrown  herself  upon  her 
bed,  rose  with  a  start.  She  had  recognized  a  voice, 
she  heard  a  man  singing.  Quickly  and  noiselessly 
she  opened  her  blinds.  The  voice  was  not  close  at 
hand,  it  was  that  of  a  traveller  passing  along  the 
road  and  these  were  the  words  he  sang: 

"  She  to  whom  all  my  thoughts  belong 
Has  never  had  one  thought  for  me; 
'Tis  for  her  sake  that  I  must  flee. 

As  youth  and  joy  have  fled  me  long. 

"From  her  I  flee,  with  tortured  breast. 
Wherein  her  image  ever  dwells, 
And  clinging,  tears  its  inmost  cells 

As  ferrets  tear  the  wild  bird's  nest." 

How  sad  the  air  was,  like  the  slow  chant  the 


230  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

drovers  sing  returning  from  the  pastures  driving 
their  herds  before  them!  The  voice  was  dying 
away  already,  perhaps  in  the  vineyard,  perhaps 
in  the  open  country  beyond.  It  still  chanted 
words  which  did  not  reach  her  window,  then 
became  silent.    It  was  just  daybreak. 

One  woman  only  had  understood  the  song, 
though  several  may  have  heard  it.  But  when  the 
sun  had  risen,  from  the  heights  of  La  Gravelle 
came  another  music,  sounding  thin  upon  the 
wind  which  bore  it  far  into  the  distance,  and  it 
must  have  spoken  from  the  soul,  for  souls  were 
moved  by  it,  each  after  its  own  fashion. 

The  children  beyond  the  fringe  of  broom, 
wakened  early  by  the  sound,  in  the  warm  beds 
of  their  low-roofed  cottages,  began  to  laugh  when 
they  heard  it,  and  wakened  their  parents.  "Lis- 
ten, father,  that  is  Maieul's  flute!  Oh,  how 
pretty!  It  is  a  long  time  since  he  has  played  it!" 
But  they  did  not  go  beyond  the  pleasure  which 
the  tripping  notes  gave  to  their  ears.  The  slate- 
cutters,  who  made  their  morning  toilet  in  the 
garden,  splashing  half-naked  in  great  tubs  of 
clear  water,  were  the  next  to  share  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  children,  and  they  laughed,  too,  as 
they  cried.  "That  is  not  the  music  for  a  strike! 
What  is  Rit-Dur  thinking  of?"  But  old  Mere 
Fete-Dieu  clasped  her  hands  and  murmured: 
"Oh,  Lord!  bring  him  back  with  a  soul  that  is 
saved,  and  a  flute  that  no  longer  weeps."  She  alone 
heard  the  tune  aright,  she  and  one  young  school- 
mistress, pretty  and  sad,  and  already  touched  at 
heart,  who  said:    "He  loves  me  yet;  that  is  the 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  231 

music  of  a  sorrowful  love  which  is  going  far 
away." 

Thus  the  rustic  flute  sounded  over  the  mounds 
of  La  Gravelle,  soon  so  faintly  that  it  must  surely 
be  travelling  down  the  valley  where  the  roads 
were  bordered  by  high  hedges;  by  the  time  the 
sunlight  had  grown  bright,  it  rang  no  louder  than 
the  hum  of  a  gnat;  and  when  it  was  broad  day 
all  knew  that  the  quarryman  Maieul  Jacquet  had 
gone  away  from  Ardesie. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE  INSPECTOR'S  VISIT. 

After  the  incidents  of  the  tenth  of  June,  when 
the  shedding  of  a  man's  blood  had  virtually  killed 
the  strike,  all  the  parents  in  Ardesie  were  anx- 
ious about  their  children.  Even  the  most  vio- 
lent were  heard  to  say:  "There  are  all  sorts  of 
people  about  on  the  mounds.  It  won't  do  to 
tmst  them."  The  classes  were,  therefore,  nearly 
empty  on  Tuesday  morning.  In  Mile.  Renee's 
there  were  buf  eight  scholars,  Mile.  David^e  had 
nine.  The  children  who  were  present  nearly  all 
lived  in  the  cluster  of  houses  surrounding  the 
church,  or  in  the  small  square  to  the  right  of  the 
school.  The  moment  she  entered  with  her  little 
girls  into  her  class-room  the  assistant  noticed  that 
Mile.  Renee  had  made  a  more  elaborate  toilet 
than  usual  and  that  she  was  highly  excited. 

"Have  you  brought  all  the  themes  back  to 
me  corrected.  Mademoiselle?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  certainly!"  Davidee  replied. 

"And  is  all  the  needle- work  in  the  chest  of 
drawers  in  my  room,  next  to  the  mineralogy 
drawer?" 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

"So  much  the  better,  I  must  go  and  see  if  you 
have  arranged  them  properly." 

232 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  233 

At  nine  o'clock  there  was  a  ring  at  the  door. 
Usually  when  the  woman  who  waited  by  the  day 
was  absent,  Mile.  Renee  sent  one  of  the  older 
pupils  to  open  the  door.  This  time  she  hastened 
out  herself,  and  Davidee,  a  moment  after,  hearing 
a  man's  deep  voice  replying  to  Mile.  Renee's 
veiled  soprano,  felt  certain  that  the  directress 
had  gone  to  meet  the  inspector.  Proof  was  not 
long  wanting.  The  sound  of  a  gliding  step  and  of 
a  heavy  tread  crunching  the  gravel,  the  roll  of  a 
bicycle  in  its  narrow  tracks  accompanied  these 
words  which  were  audible  through  the  open  bay- 
window  : 

"It  is  true,  Mademoiselle.  I  am  terribly 
heated.  What  dust!  What  heat!  Your  Arde- 
sie  is  a  perfect  furnace." 

"I  should  not  have  ventured  to  call  it  that. 
Monsieur,  but  I  have  been  thinking  so  for  the  past 
six  years." 

"Six  years!  In  Ard^sie?  You  must  have 
requested  to  be  retained  here  then." 

"Not  at  all.  Monsieur.  Would  Monsieur  par- 
take of  a  little  refreshment?" 

"Never,  Mademoiselle.  I  never  accept.  I 
am  on  duty,  but  it  is  true  nevertheless  that  I, 
who  am  from  the  south,  have  never  suffered  from 
the  temperature  at  home  as  I  do  here.  Is  this 
your  class?" 

"Pass  in,  I  beg " 

"After  you." 

The  voice  belonged  evidently  to  the  southern 
type  of  orator,  for  whom  a  single  listener  is  as 
good  as  the  crowded  forum.    His  entrance  into 


234  DAVIDEEBIROT 

the  class-room  was  boisterous.  Davidee,  all  this 
time;  was  dictating  to  the  younger  girls  a  page 
from  a  manual  on  civic  duties.  It  was  a  pleasure 
to  catch  through  the  partition  the  slightest  notes 
of  this  paternal  barytone  alternately  interro- 
gating the  pupils,  whose  timid  answers  remained 
inaudible,  and  congratulating  them  and  their 
mistress.  "Very  good,"  he  was  sa5dng,  "that 
distinction  between  lepidoptera  and  diptera!  four 
wings,  two  wings!  Natural  history  makes  us 
learn  to  cherish  nature.  Indicate  the  methods 
of  separating  the  oxygen  in  water  from  the  hy- 
drogen. Very  good!  There  is  a  future  house- 
keeper who  will  be  able  to  explain,  I  am  sure,  the 
phenomenon  of  ebulUtion.  What  is  her  father's 
profession.  Mademoiselle?" 

The  studied  falsetto  of  Mile.  Renee  replied: 

"A  pork-butcher,  saving  your  presence.  Mon- 
sieur." 

"Very  good!  Her  orthography  leaves  some- 
thing to  be  desired,  but  her  memory  is  excellent. 
Our  highest  faculty.  Mademoiselle!" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"One  of  the  chief  joys  of  life!" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"And  one  which  you  are  cultivating  with  suc- 
cess. Show  me  the  rotatory  schedule  of  daily 
studies.  You  do  not  know  what  that  is?  I 
understand,  I  excuse  you!  That  is  the  name  I 
proposed  to  the  Minister  of  Public  Instruction, 
whom  I  knew  very  well,  to  designate  what  you, 
perhaps,  call  the  schedule  of  studies.  But  rota- 
tory occurred  to  me,  a  word  that  vibrates.     Ro- 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  235 

tatory  gives  an  added  meaning,  it  makes  a 
picture;  rotatory  was  my  own  invention.  The 
minister  said  to  me  afterward:  '1  regret  it.' 
Thanks,  Mademoiselle,  that  is  right."  Davidee, 
dictating  in  a  lowered  voice,  was  watching  to 
see  the  door-handle  turn,  or  to  hear  the  approach- 
ing footsteps  of  the  inspector  and  the  directress, , 
and  was  ready  to  spring  to  her  feet.  But  the 
visit,  next  door,  was  prolonged.  At  a  quarter 
past  nine  the  assistant  heard  their  footsteps  re- 
treating, and  for  ten  minutes  more  there  was  no 
sound  from  the  upper  class,  save  whisperings, 
suppressed  peals  of  laughter,  and  the  fall  of  an 
occasional  pen-holder  on  the  bare  floor,  whence 
the  assistant  inferred  that  the  inspector  and 
Mile.  Ren^e  were  walking  in  the  court-yard  or 
the  garden.  At  half  past  nine  they  entered;  the 
inspector  came  first,  and  opened  the  school- 
room door  as  cautiously  as  if  he  were  venturing 
into  a  lion's  cage,  with  a  rapid  movement,  his 
head  thrust  foi-ward  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  those 
of  the  wild  beast.  The  latter  was  represented 
by  the  assistant,  who  had  risen  from  her  seat 
to  greet  him.  Having  introduced  himself,  he 
broke  the  magnetic  current  by  glancing  around 
at  the  empty  benches,  and  smiling  upon  the  nine 
pupils  present.  Then  he  resumed  his  air  of 
gravity  as  he  seated  himself  in  the  chair  which 
one  of  the  older  pupils  was  bringing  in  for  him. 

"Let  us  see  this  dictation!" 

He  took  up  the  nearest  copy  and  gazed  at  it 
approvingly : 

"A  page  from  Souchet-Lapervenche?    One  of 


236  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

our  best  prose  writers.  I  often  recite  extracts 
from  Souchet-Lapervenche  in  the  salons  of  my 
friends.  It  produces  a  great  effect.  Not  enough 
punctuation,  Mademoiselle;  how  do  you  expect 
a  pupil  to  understand  that  which  is  not  punctu- 
ated?   Do  you  dictate  the  punctuation?  " 

"No,  Monsieur." 

"You  are  wrong.  Listen  to  this  extract  prop- 
erly punctuated,  children;  notice  the  difference 
between  my  semicolon  and  colon!"  He  pro- 
ceeded to  recite,  while  Mile.  Renee  listened  with 
admiration,  Mile.  Davidee  stood  beside  him 
respectful  and  resigned,  and  the  pupils  stared  at 
his  mouth  curved  in  a  bow  whence  proceeded 
the  voice  of  a  chorister  intoning,  at  the  full, 
shaven  cheeks,  and  the  chin  lengthened  by  the 
pointed  tuft  of  a  blue-black  beard.  This  in- 
spector, who  had  been  appointed  to  visit  the  de- 
partment as  a  substitute  during  a  colleague's 
illness,  belonged  to  that  race  which  never  grows 
weaiy  of  itself.  Wherever  he  happened  to  be 
he  overplayed  his  part  in  order  to  prove  that  his 
talent  exceeded  his  present  functions.  He  car- 
ried himself  with  an  air  of  conviction;  with  a 
direct,  patriotic,  imperious  glance,  which  some 
of  his  intimates  at  the  Cafe  d'Auch  even  vent- 
ured to  call  "imperial."  Having  once  heard 
this  word,  he  pondered  it  incessantly;  it  was  his 
"breach  into  the  Vosges."  The  inspector  never 
discussed  an  order,  and  the  obedience  he  exacted 
from  others  was  rendered  sacred  and  beautiful 
in  his  eyes  by  his  own  example.  Crafty,  beneath 
an  off-hand  manner,  he  had  the  art  of  casting  a 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  237 

sidelong  glance  at  the  subordinate  whom  he  was 
addressing,  as  if  to  imply:  "I  am  a  good  fellow, 
you  see;  I  can  smile  on  you,  give  you  my  pro- 
tection, and  exert  in  your  behalf  a  credit  which 
has  made  many  jealous  of  me,  and  may  perhaps 
make  others  jealous  of  you."  In  actual  fact, 
this  look  rarely  went  further  than  such  profes- 
sional hints.  Some  unusually  pretty  assistant 
teachers,  here  and  there,  had  discovered  that  the 
inspector  was  a  connoisseur  in  beauty.  But 
he  was  content  with  insinuating  his  sentiments, 
calling  forth  a  blush  and  a  glance  of  amazement, 
to  which  he  responded  by  heavy  witticisms  and 
broad  jests.  He  declared  that  no  one  would 
ever  catch  him  paj^ing  court  to  a  subordinate, 
and  he  spoke  the  truth.  All  his  severities  were 
directed  toward  scruples  of  conscience.  He  re- 
garded any  such  timidity  as  a  personal  insult, 
as  he  did  also  the  least  show  of  respect  for  any 
authority  other  than  the  State.  The  inspector 
dehghted  in  his  functions,  which  gave  him  an 
opportunity  for  seeing  the  country,  and  meeting 
"representatives  of  various  races,  but  all  equally 
French  at  heart."  He  was  most  impressive  as  he 
uttered  this  formula.  It  was  these  functions 
which  had  brought  him  to  Ardesie,  in  the  place, 
as  he  explained,  of  "my  dear  disabled  colleague." 

When  he  had  minutely  examined  the  pupils' 
note-books,  he  passed  judgment  on  a  couple  of 
maxims  of  civic  morality,  and  declared  that,  in 
his  opinion.  Mile.  Birot  was  a  Httle  too  much  of 
an  idealist. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "I  have  just  shriven 


238  D  A  V I  D  £  E  '  B  I  R  0  T 

the  directress;  it  is  your  turn  now.  Will  you 
step  outside  with  me?  We  shall  be  able  to  talk 
more  freely  in  the  garden." 

"Shall  I  accompany  you,  Monsieur?"  asked 
Mile.  Ren(§e. 

"It  is  needless,  Mademoiselle." 

The  inspector  and  the  assistant  proceeded  in 
silence  to  the  garden,  where  after  casting  a  glance 
at  his  bicycle  to  assure  himself  that  no  one  had 
touched  it,  the  functionary  seated  himself  on 
the  low  wall  surrounding  the  vegetable  garden, 
and  made  a  sign  to  the  assistant  to  seat  herself 
on  the  other  side  of  the  gate.  She,  however, 
remained  standing  a  few  paces  distant,  and  al- 
though he  repeated  the  gesture  she  had  an  air 
of  not  comprehending  him.  Thereupon  he  con- 
tracted his  brows,  looked  up  to  the  sky  above 
Davidee's  head,  and  spoke  as  if  he  relished  the 
words:  "I  should  be  sorry  to  give  pain  to  a 
young  assistant  who  needs  to  have  a  feeling  of 
security  as  to  her  future.  But  I  have  to  warn 
you  of  certain  accusations  which  have  been 
brought  against  j^ou." 

"By  Mademoiselle  Renee?" 

"I  have  named  no  one.  Do  not  aggravate 
your  case  by  dragging  in  your  superiors.  We 
have  a  dozen  ways  of  knowing  what  takes  place 
in  one  of  our  schools.  I  will  not  enlarge  upon 
the  misplaced  familiarities  attributed  to  you." 

"Conversations,  perhaps;  famiharities,  no!  I 
cannot  accept  such  an  expression  addressed  to  a 
respectable  girl!" 

"Oh,  Mademoiselle,  your  expressions  also  may 


DAVIDEEBIROT  239 

be  out  of  place.  I  have  the  right — I  ought  to 
have  it — to  pass  judgment  on  your  private  con- 
duct." 

"Take  the  right,  Monsieur,  but  do  not  judge 
me  before  you  have  questioned  me." 

"Precisely!  I  have  no  intention  of  question- 
ing you  on  any  such  subject.  But  I  repeat,  I 
shoiQd  have  a  perfect  right  to  do  so." 

"Do  it  then." 

"How  hasty  you  are!  You  are  very  young, 
to  be  sure.  No,  Mademoiselle,  I  refuse  to  dis- 
cuss with  each  of  my  instructresses  in  turn  the 
principles  of  private  morality  which  they  profess 
and  practice.  In  any  case  short  of  scandal  I  have 
never  intervened  in  the  South;  I  do  not  propose 
to  do  so  in  the  North." 

He  ceased  to  contemplate  the  white  clouds 
above  him,  and  turned  his  imperial  face,  and  his 
eyes,  which  were  of  the  same  bluish  black  as  his 
beard  and  hair,  upon  the  young  girl,  who  was 
expecting  that  look  intended  to  terrify  her,  and 
met  it  without  faltering.  One  could  look  deep 
into  the  eyes  of  Da\ddee  Birot  as  she  stood  very- 
erect  beside  the  gate,  her  hands  hidden  in  the 
pockets  of  the  white  apron  with  red  polka-dots 
which  she  had  thrown  on  over  her  dress.  A  ray 
of  sun  just  touched  her  head  and  turned  her  hair 
to  chestnut. 

"What  I  have  to  reproach  you  with,  as  a 
breach  of  professional  duty,  is  your  attitude 
toward  the  cure  of  Ardesie." 

"I  beg  pardon.  Monsieur,  I  do  not  quite  grasp 
the  meaning  of  your  accusation.    Since  I  have 


240  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

been  here,  I  have  only  once  set  foot  inside  a 
church,  and  that  was  on  the  occasion " 

"I  know;  you  cannot  give  me  any  information." 

"I  was  brought  up  in  a  family  where  religious 
practices  scarcely  existed.  I  do  not  judge  my 
father  and  mother.  If  they  had  brought  me  up 
otherwise  I  would  tell  you  so;  I  should  have  no 
fear  of  saying  it." 

A  keen  smile  passed  across  the  severe  mask. 
"Bravo!  I  admire  sincerity.  But  you  see,  by 
your  own  admission,  you  do  not  know  whether 
you  have  done  right  or  wrong  in  abstaining  from 
religious  practices." 

"It  is  true.  I  have  had  no  time  to  concern 
myself  with  these  subjects." 

"I  hope  you  may  never  have.  They  are  idle 
questions." 

"So  I  have  been  taught;  superrational." 

"  Precisely !  Ah !  you  have  attended  the  courses 
of  Mademoiselle  Hacquin,  one  of  our  great  think- 
ers, although  in  the  primary  department.  But 
for  the  very  reason  that  you  have  not  taken  a 
decided  stand,  you  are  being  led  astray.  Inno- 
cently, I  am  willing  to  beheve,  but  seriously. 
For  there  is  the  example.  Mademoiselle!  You 
were  in  charge  of  your  pupils  and  filling  an  of- 
ficial position,  when,  several  weeks  ago,  you 
held  a  long  conversation  with  the  cure,  at  the 
entrance  to  the  cemetery." 

"I  was  there  about  one  minute.  I  was  thank- 
ing him  because  I  loved  the  child." 

"Meanwhile  your  pupils  were  wandering  un- 
protected along  the  road." 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  241 

"Oh,  Monsieur!" 

"Yes,  unprotected,  until  the  sound  of  passing 
wheels  at  last  roused  you  from  your  forgetful- 
ness  and  broke  off  your  parley  with  the  priest. 
Moreover — let  me  finish,  I  beg — moreover,  you 
were  carrying  an  ostentatiously  large  prayer-book 
in  your  hand." 

"Oh,  Monsieur!" 

"Ostentatiously  large." 

"I  should  have  preferred  it  smaller,  but  it  is 
all  I  have." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  the  spirit  of  Pere 
Birot — ^who  was  not  an  easy  man  to  deal  with — 
appeared  in  his  daughter's  look,  in  the  tone  of 
her  voice,  in  the  movement  of  her  hands  as  she 
clutched  her  dotted  apron.  "And  so  you  would 
forbid  my  entering  a  church  if  I  felt  any  such 
desire!" 

A  laugh  of  good-natured  scorn  accompanied 
the  answer.  "Oh,  no.  Mademoiselle;  Hberty,  you 
know!" 

"You  would  at  any  rate  forbid  my  carrying 
a  prayer-book?  The  only  one  I  own!  I  should 
not  have  the  right  granted  me  to  do  as  every 
one  else  does — to  pray  for  my  dead?  I  must 
request  you  to  inform  me  plainly  what  you  caU 
my  duty.  Monsieur,  in  order  that  I  may  perform 
it,  if  possible.    I  beg  you  to  define  it." 

It  was  the  inspector's  turn  to  take  time  for 
reflection.  He  appeared  to  be  absorbed  once 
more  in  watching  the  white  clouds  which  were 
rolhng  up,  and  now  hung  above  the  house-tops 
like  a  gleaming  glacier. 


242  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

"I  do  not  wish  to  encroach  upon  any  one's 
hberty,  Mademoiselle;  that  would  be  to  behe  my 
whole  pubHc  career.  "What  I  would  order  you, 
or  advise  you,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing, 
is  not  to  walk  about  carrying  a  big  book  which  is 
a  manifestation  in  itself,  and  to  converse  as  sel- 
dom and  as  briefly  as  possible  with  the  cur6  or 
the  vicar,  if  there  is  a  vicar.  You  understand, 
do  you  not?  There  are  certain  fine  distinctions 
I  can  only  hint  at.  No,  I  see  that  you  persist 
in  misunderstanding  me.  You  are  said  to  be 
intelKgent — ^you  are  so — take  care  not  to  pass 
judgment  on  too  many  subjects!"  And,  so  speak- 
ing, with  a  sudden  heave  of  his  broad  thighs,  he 
sprang  down  from  the  wall,  and  resumed  the 
tone  which  he  regarded  as  that  of  a  man  of  the 
world,  as  he  begged  the  assistant  to  relate  to  him 
the  principal  incidents  of  the  strike.  The  direc- 
tress, who  had  been  watching  for  him,  came  out 
of  the  door  at  once  to  accompany  him  as  far  as 
the  road.  He  was  extremely  cordial  in  his  re- 
iterated promises  to  Mile.  Renee  to  secure  pro- 
motion for  her.  He  expressed  less  clearly  his 
benevolent  mtentions  toward  "  an  assistant  whose 
spirit  was  somewhat  too  independent,  but  who 
was  full  of  excellent  intentions  and  had  a  future 
before  her  as  instructress." 

Da\ddee  felt  herself  condemned  on  the  spot, 
and  at  short  notice. 

"Well,  child,"  said  Mile.  Renee,  when  they  were 
alone,  "are  you  satisfied?" 

"Delighted!"  rephed  David^e. 

"I  did  all  that  could  be  done  for  you.    We 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  243 

have  had  occasional  misunderstandings,  but  all 
that  shall  be  forgotten,  shall  it  not?" 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

David^e,  while  concluding  her  afternoon  classes, 
thought  over  all  the  words  spoken  in  the  morn- 
ing. She  could  have  no  doubts  now  in  regard 
to  the  denunciation  of  which  Phrosine  had 
warned  her,  nor  of  the  dismissal  which  would  be 
the  most  certain  result  of  the  inspector's  vague 
promises.  She  had  her  enemies,  she,  the  young 
girl  who  had  entered  the  normal  school,  not  from 
necessity,  in  order  to  support  herself,  like  so  many 
of  her  companions,  but  led  by  a  sort  of  maternal 
instinct,  a  gentle  taste  for  training  children  and 
an  ambition  for  social  service.  She  said  to  her- 
self: "I  will  not  be  imprisoned  or,  as  Maieul 
said,  '  caught  in  a  thicket.'  I  will  come  out  of  my 
diflficulties  by  going  to  meet  them,  and  not  being 
afraid.  And  to  begin  with,  I  will  go  this  very 
evening  to  see  this  cure,  who  will  perhaps  be 
questioned;  who  can  testify,  in  any  case — if  I  am 
reduced  to  such  wretched  expedients — as  to  the 
words  that  passed  between  us.  It  revolts  me 
to  think  that  any  one  considers  me  so  base  and 
poor-spirited  that  I  would  consent  never  to  meet, 
on  the  village  street,  the  cm-e,  or  Maieul,  or  Phro- 
sine, or  any  other  of  those  excommunicated  ones 
on  the  Hst  they  choose  to  make  out  for  me." 

Davidee  Birot's  cheeks  were  almost  as  scarlet 
as  her  Hps  when,  at  six  o'clock,  having  put  on 
the  hat  like  an  inverted  harebell,  she  sallied 
forth  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  mother  of  one  of  her 
Httle  girls,  who  lived  opposite  the  church.    With- 


244  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

out  explaining  why,  she  lingered  there  a  while, 
which  the  widow  thought  very  kind  on  the  part 
of  the  young  assistant.  It  was  she  who  sustained 
the  conversation,  explaining  the  hard  conditions 
of  a  washer-woman's  trade,  which  she  had 
entered  upon  at  fourteen,  and  over  which,  at 
sixty,  she  was  still  labouring,  with  cracked  and 
bleeding  hands. 

"It  holds  you  more  than  you  would  think, 
this  work  at  the  tubs,"  she  said.  "If  you  begin 
a  washer-woman,  you  end  a  washer-woman;  and 
it's  all  very  well  when  we  are  soaking  our  clothes 
by  the  river — there  we  can  talk  to  the  current  as 
it  rushes  by,  and  say,  'There  you  go  gallop- 
ing away,  with  your  edges  curling  like  lace,'  and 
little  things  of  that  kind.  But  here,  where  we 
have  to  dip  our  clothes  in  holes  which  the  sun 
never  warms,  and  where  the  water  doesn't  know 
how  to  flow,  the  business  is  not  so  gay.  It  is 
not  enough  so  for  the  young;  but  formerly " 

Da\ddee  knew  how  to  answer,  because  with 
her  the  heart  always  listened;  so  by  brief  words 
and  nods  and  little  signs  of  sympathy,  she  showed 
that  she  understood.  But  the  young  girl,  pleased 
as  she  was  to  find  her  presence  so  welcome, 
was  actually  waiting  for  the  end  of  the  service 
at  which  the  c\ir6  of  Ardesie  officiated,  having 
rung  his  own  bell  at  that  golden  sunset  hour 
which  comes  at  seven  in  summer  and  in  winter 
as  early  as  five.  From  the  widow's  cottage  they 
could  hear  the  responses  of  his  flock,  as  they 
implored  God  to  protect  their  slumbers,  making 
of  them  a  means  to  fresh  labour  and  to  salvation; 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  245 

and  to  deliver  them  from  the  snares  of  the 
tempter  who  makes  the  night  his  especial  domain. 
Through  the  open  door  there  entered  not  only 
the  warm  air,  laden  with  odours  of  new  mown 
hay  and  of  the  marshes,  as  well  as  of  freshly 
baked  loaves  from  the  baker's  close  by,  but  also 
a  vision  of  the  Virgin  and  Child  painted  on 
the  stained  glass  window  of  the  church.  Davi- 
dee  looked  up  at  the  Child's  three  fingers  lifted 
in  blessing  and,  without  Owning  it  to  herself, 
she  felt  happier  at  being  there,  within  the  im- 
mediate influence  of  that  protecting  gesture. 
She  had  never  before  noticed  that  there  was  a 
stamed  window  in  the  Ardesie  church,  where  the 
Mother  w^as  represented  triumphant  and  glori- 
ous through  her  Child. 

All  at  once  the  colours  of  the  stained  glass 
faded;  the  abbe  must  have  extinguished  the 
candles  on  the  altar.  Men  and  women  poured 
out  of  the  church,  their  faces  wearing  the  reso- 
lute expression  pecuhar  to  behevers  who  Hve  in 
the  midst  of  opposition  and  hostility.  The  cure 
must  have  lingered  to  set  the  chairs  in  order  and 
tie  up  the  cord  by  which  he  rang  his  bell.  He 
came  out  a  moment  after  the  last  of  his  flock, 
turned  the  key  in  the  door  and  then  stopped  to 
gaze  up  at  the  sunset  sky,  splendid  with  torn  and 
flying  clouds  of  purple  and  crimson;  then  low- 
ering his  eyes,  he  was  amazed  to  behold  Mile. 
Birot  standing  before  him.  A  few  people  who 
still  lingered  in  the  church  porch  were  looking 
on.  Returning  the  abbe's  bow,  the  assistant 
spoke  very  distinctly,  emphasizing  each  word. 


246  DAVIDEEBIROT 

so  that  it  might  carry  far:  "Monsieur  le  Cure, 
do  you  remember  a  conversation  I  had  with  you 
near  the  cemetery  gate  the  day  of  little  Anna  Le 
Floch's  burial?" 

The  cure  began  to  laugh.  "I  could  recite  all 
your  words,  Mademoiselle,  and  the  lesson  would 
not  be  long,  as  we  exchanged  barely  three  sen- 
tences." 

"It  appears  that  these  sufficed  for  a  teacher 
to  be  denounced  as  a  clerical.  But  I  do  not  in- 
tend to  let  them  do  as  they  please  with  me.  Would 
you  kindly  write  down  those  words,  in  which  I 
expressed  my  affection  for  my  Httle  pupil?" 

"Certainly,  Mademoiselle." 

"That  is  all  I  have  to  ask  of  you,  Monsieur  le 
Cure;  many  thanks." 

She  was  moving  on  when  her  attention  was 
arrested  by  a  woman  approaching  from  the  vil- 
lage, walking  at  a  rapid  pace,  weary  and  travel- 
stained,  dragging  behind  her  a  child  who  was 
constantly  falling  back  and  letting  her  feet  trail 
in  the  dust.  On  the  woman's  other  arm  hung 
a  soup  kettle.  As  they  reached  the  houses  whose 
dwellers  were  standing  on  their  door-steps,  the 
child  took  heart  once  more.  She  pointed  to  a 
dog  which  was  following  them,  and  seemed  to  be 
as  worn-out  as  they.     "  How  dirty  he  is !"  she  said. 

The  mother  shook  her  violently,  exclaiming,  as 
she  looked  about  her: 

"Not  so  dirty  as  these  people  here.  Come 
along,  you  brute!"  she  cried  with  an  oath,  where- 
upon the  child  began  to  laugh,  and  this  morsel 
of  a  creature  echoed  the  blasphemous  words.    As 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  247 

they  passed  on  the  cure  turned  his  face  toward 
the  church  saying  m  a  low  voice:  "My  God, 
you  were  a  prisoner  for  the  love  of  such  as  these, 
and  they  know  it  not!" 

Silence  followed,  and  the  group  of  people  on 
the  porch  gradually  dispersed,  while  only  a  few 
neighbours  were  left  standing  on  their  thresholds 
in  the  sunset  light  which  streamed  across  the  road. 

From  the  Green  Diary;  the  same  day. — "I  have 
not  faith,  but  I  will  not  endure  ha\dng  the  con- 
trary spirit  forced  upon  me  without  the  liberty 
to  cast  it  aside.  I  am  wounded  and  humiliated 
for  the  cause  of  education,  the  dignitj^  of  which 
has  been  attacked  in  my  person  far  more  seriously 
than  it  could  be  by  my  chance  interview  with 
Maieul  Jacquet.  The  man  who  objected  to  a 
large  prayer-book,  but  was  wiUing  to  tolerate  a 
small  one  while  despising  equally  the  text  of 
both,  could  drive  me  to  doing  anything  except 
what  he  demanded.  My  mind  is  made  up;  I 
have  decided  to  what  method  of  defence  I  will 
intrust  my  cause.  If  I  am  not  successful  I  shall 
renounce  my  profession.  In  the  meantime  this 
hypocritical  violence  has  influenced  me  to  re- 
open the  forbidden  volume.  I  have  just  been 
reading  parts  of  the  mass  and  the  ser^dce  for  the 
dead.  It  seems  to  me  beautiful  that  we  should 
be  buried  to  the  sound  of  those  words  full  of 
compassion,  of  pardon,  and  of  the  eternal  dawn. 
There  is  a  nobility  about  them  to  which  I  am  not 
accustomed.  The  inspector  shall  not  prevent  my 
returning  as  often  as  I  please  to  this  source  of 
inspiration. 


248  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

"I  still  think  of  a  word,  spoken,  I  believe,  by 
the  cure  himself,  upon  the  secret  of  peace  and  joy 
in  this  world:  'The  solution  of  the  social  prob- 
lem lies  in  the  development  of  the  supernatural.' 
That  sajdng  is  beyond  my  comprehension;  but 
who  knows  if  it  be  not  true?  I  am  amazed  at 
the  fund  of  love  for  the  people  which  seems  to 
exist  in  this  priest's  heart,  although  so  few  care 
to  draw  upon  it.  It  seems  that  the  strike  is 
almost  over;  I  do  not  know  how  an  arrangement 
was  brought  about,  but  as  to  the  mutual  hatred, 
all  the  causes  for  it  subsist  and  are  still  at  work; 
an  actual  permanent  peaceful  settlement  has  not 
been  reached.  What  a  lesson  life  in  the  midst 
of  these  labouring  people  is  for  a  girl  like  me,  who 
troubled  herself  so  Uttle  about  such  questions 
at  first,  and  who  is  gradually  becoming  so  deeply 
interested.  I  would  not  exchange  my  position 
here  amid  the  stones  of  these  quarries  for  any 
school  they  could  offer  me  in  town.  Here  I  see 
the  real  life  of  the  people ;  I  am  a  part  of  it,  there 
is  nothing  to  distract  me  from  it.  And  I  learn 
to  see  the  poverty  in  myself  as  well  as  in  these 
labourers'  daughters  around  me,  whom  it  is  my 
business  to  instruct  and  make  over  after  my  own 
likeness;  but  the  model  reahzes  sadly  what  a 
change  is  needed  in  herself. 

"Twentieth  of  June,  1909:  A  letter  from 
Phrosine!  I  had  given  up  expecting  one.  I 
feared  that  she  was  lost  to  me,  that  weak  and 
violent  being  whom  nothing  has  ever  elevated, 
no  beUef  in  anything,  no  friendships  with  her 
equals;  who  has  had  nothing  but  her  duties  to 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  249 

sustain  her;  and  these  are  not  sufficient  when 
one  has  no  behef  in  another  hfe.  What  might 
not  kindness  or  good  teaching  have  done  to  re- 
form such  an  attractive  nature,  so  easily  tempted 
and  tempting,  but  so  frank  and  honest.  Why- 
was  there  no  one  to  give  some  rule  of  conduct, 
some  ideal,  to  this  seeker  after  joy,  who  might 
have  learned  at  last  to  love  justice  too?  She 
writes  from  Vendome. 

"'Mlle.  David^e: — It  is  I  who  am  writing. 
You  separated  me  from  the  man  I  loved,  and  I 
bore  you  a  bitter  gmdge  for  it.  I  bear  it  still. 
But  I  must  write  to  you  because  I  am  in  need  of 
help.  At  first  I  fived  in  Orleans;  you  under- 
stand how  I  mean;  I  lodged  wherever  it  hap- 
pened, in  the  poorer  quarters  of  the  town,  but 
not  often  on  charity.  I  ate  in  the  taverns  where 
the  masons  drink,  eating  only  enough  to  make 
them  thirsty.  I  asked  all  of  them,  every  one 
you  understand:  "Have  you  met  Le  Floch, 
Henri,  a  tall,  bearded  man,  with  a  head  hke  a 
lion,  who  is  a  carpenter,  and  makes  beams  for 
mines,  or  works  in  wood  in  one  way  or  another?" 
They  merely  laughed,  and  answered  me  you 
may  guess  how.  But  there  were  some  kind  ones 
among  these  men.  For  my  part,  I  put  on  an 
air  like  you,  only  with  a  flash  more  of  petroleum 
in  the  eyes  and  on  the  tongue,  and  said:  "I 
am  hunting  for  the  father  so  as  to  get  the  son, 
who  is  my  son.  It  is  not  safe  to  touch  a  mother 
when  she's  defending  her  child,  so  answer  me!" 
Then   they   would    answer:    "Maybe   we   have 


250  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

seen  him,  but  at  work  we  only  know  the  mates 
by  their  arms  and  legs  or  their  eyes,  we  don't 
always  know  their  names.  Le  Floch,  Henri? 
I  don't  remember,  though  I  remember  some 
bearded  ones  as  you  may  believe!  How  old 
would  your  man  be?  Forty?  well  now,  in  1904 
or  1905  or  thereabouts,  I  worked  in  a  wood-yard 
with  a  bearded  fellow  of  about  thirty-five.  But 
it  wasn't  in  Orleans  we  were  working,  it  was  in 
the  forest  of  Vendome.    He  was  no  great  talker." 

"'"That  is  so!" 

"'"But  a  deep  drinker!" 

"'"Then  it  must  have  been  my  man." 

"'"And  he  may  have  had  a  bit  the  look  of  a 
lion,  but  one  that  goes  on  the  spree  a  bit  too 
often.  You  might  look  there  for  him — "  So 
from  one  village  to  another  I  finally  reached 
Vendome,  where  I'm  writing  you.  And  yes- 
terday, after  I'd  questioned  a  lot  of  men,  there 
came  to  the  lodging  a  young  fellow  from  the 
Vendome  country.  I  can't  hide  from  you  that 
this  one  gave  me  a  kiss.  I  am  not  you.  Made- 
moiselle, and  I  haven't  a  sou  left,  nor  a  scrap  of 
courage.  After  we  had  talked  awhile,  he  said: 
"I  have  met  him."  "AVhat!  Le  Floch?"  "Yes, 
over  three  months  ago,  in  the  Forest  of  Vou- 
vant,  which  is  in  Vendee,  and  the  finest  forest 
you  ever  saw,  a  forest  as  handsome  in  its  way 
as  you  are  in  yours." 

"'"Don't  talk  such  stuff!  Was  it  Henri? 
Are  you  sure?" 

"'"Hehadaboyhesaid,  who  was  fourteen  years 
old." 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  251 


"'"With  him?" 

"'"No." 

"'"So  much  the  worse!" 

(iccc- 


He  only  said:  'I  had  a  boy,  and  I  took 
him  away  from  the  Charity  Board.'" 

"'"That  is  he!    It  is  he,  I  tell  you!" 

"'"'Wait  a  moment!'  he  said:  'I  have  a  boy 
and  I  found  a  place  for  him.'" 

'""Did  he  say  where?" 

"'"No,  that  he  didn't  say,  he  only  told  me 
that  at  first  the  j^oung  brat  gave  him  the  money 
he  earned,  but  now  he  didn't  do  it  any  more,  and 
it  was  disgusting  of  him." 

"'As  for  me  when  I  heard  that,  I  left  the  fellow 
at  once,  and  now  I'm  going  to  the  Forest  of  Vou- 
vant.  But  they  say  it's  a  long  way  from  here, 
by  the  sea.  I  will  write  you,  perhaps,  if  I  find 
him,  or  in  case  I  am  dying  of  hunger,  for  it  was 
you  who  brought  me  to  this  pass.  Send  me  a 
Httle  money  for  the  journey,  won't  you?  Thank 
you  all  the  same  for  coming  with  me  the  day  I 
started  and  helping  to  carry  my  basket.  If  you 
had  half  of  my  heart  to  carry  you  would  see  how 
much  heavier  that  is.    Good-by,  try  to  be  happy. 

"'Phrosine.' 

"Thirtieth  of  June:  To-day  came  another 
letter,  not  from  Phrosine  this  time,  but  from  an 
old  school-mate  at  the  normal  school  in  La  Ro- 
chelle.  She  writes  from  Rouergue.  Why  Rouer- 
gue?  It  is  true  that  she  might  ask:  Why  Ardesie? 
And  she  begins  her  letter  as  if  she  thought  I 
might  have  forgotten  her.     '  Perhaps  you  may  re- 


252  DAVIDEE    BIROT 

member.'  Yes,  indeed,  I  recall  vividly  that  weak, 
ardent,  tender  daughter  of  Rochelais  fisherfolk, 
whom  we  called  Elise,  after  a  character  in  'Es- 
ther.' 'Is  it  thou,  dear  Elise?  Oh  day,  thrice 
blest!  etc., '  and  because  she  was  a  born  confidante. 
Those  who  confided  their  secrets  to  that  little 
ivory  casket  had  no  reason  to  regret  it.  The 
words  dropped  into  her  soul  like  rain-drops  into 
the  water;  there  remained  not  a  trace  of  what 
she  had  listened  to,  of  what  had  mingled  for  the 
moment  with  her  thoughts;  and  we  were  all 
devoted  to  her  though  she  gave  us  nothing  in 
return.  We  never  knew  whether  she  had  any 
secrets  of  her  own,  and  probably  she  had  not. 
But  the  years  have  passed,  and  to-day  it  is  she 
who  is  seeking  a  confidante  and  asking  for  pro- 
tection. I  suspected  in  school  that  she  was  a 
Christian,  or  at  least  was  longing  to  be  one.  She 
said  to  me  one  evening:  'Do  you  never  pray, 
Davidee?'  in  a  tone  impl}dng  that  she  knew  far 
better  than  I  the  upward  path.  Now  it  appears 
that  she  has  found  occasion  to  renew  her  ques- 
tion, that  she  has  heard — from  whom,  I  wonder? — 
of  my  differences  with  the  inspector  or  rather 
with  Mile.  Desforges,  and  of  my  other  Ardesian 
experiences,  and  she  now  adopts  a  more  modest 
tone  and  asks:  'Tell  me  how  you  have  accom- 
plished so  much.  Is  it  true  that  you  have  suc- 
ceeded in  liberating  yourself,  and  securing  your 
right  to  your  own  religious  opinions,  both  for 
yourself  and  in  the  training  of  your  pupils?  I 
suffer  so  much  from  opposition  on  both  these 
points  that  I  feel  the  need  of  an  ally.    And  how 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  253 

many  others  there  are  silently  pursuing  their 
careers  of  devotion  to  duty,  awaiting  and  hoping 
for  a  purer  atmosphere  in  which  their  souls  can 
draw  breath!  I  am  rejoiced  to  learn  that  you 
have  known  how  to  defend  yom'  rights  better 
than  I  have  done,  and  let  me  add,  my  dear  Davi- 
dee,  that  I  am  surprised  at  this;  I  did  not  imagine 
you  to  be  so  near  me  in  spirit,  etc' 

"I  answered  plainly  that  I  was  not  respon- 
sible for  the  gossip  of  a  village,  spread  and  exag- 
gerated by  my  colleagues:  'I  have  had  slight 
difficulties,'  I  said,  'which  are  not  yet  entirely 
settled,  but  I  hope  to  come  out  of  them  with 
honour.  I  have  no  method  in  the  matter,  no 
advice  to  give,  nor  confidences  to  make.  T  have 
not  the  faith  of  which  you  speak.'  And  now  I 
hope  that  she  will  not  return  to  the  subject. 

"Eleven  o'clock  at  night:  My  letter  is  gone, 
I  have  seen  it  put  into  the  green  bag  which  is 
now  on  the  mail-carrier's  back,  and  he  is  off  on 
his  bicycle.  So  my  answer  is  well  on  its  way  to 
Rouergue.  And  now  I  regret  it.  The  state  of 
secret  irritation  I  am  in  has  made  me  act  cruelly, 
and  cruelty  toward  souls  is  the  harshest  of  all. 
I  think  of  those  unhappy  souls  hke  hers  who  has 
just  appealed  to  me,  who  feel  themselves  watched 
and  hunted,  and  who  dare  not  hght  their  fires 
at  night  for  fear  the  mounting  flame  and  smoke 
should  betray  them.  They  are,  after  all,  better 
than  I,  but  the  cause  of  their  suffering  and  of 
my  anger  are  not  altogether  unlike.  I  want 
my  personal  dignity  respected,  they  wish  their 
religious  faith  to  be  so;  it  is  the  same  underhand 


254  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

methods  which  offend  us  both.  I  open  my  win- 
dow, I  see  the  curve  of  low  billowy  forms  in  the 
ashen  darkness.  Nothing,  or  next  to  nothing, 
can  be  called  by  its  name;  these  misty  forms  be- 
fore me  to  the  right,  are  they  shrubs  or  house- 
tops? If  I  did  not  know  their  look  by  day  I 
could  not  tell.  And  the  thought  comes  to  me 
that  we,  who  try  to  understand  ourselves,  are 
like  those  who  gaze  out  into  the  darkness;  that 
I  have  never  seen  my  soul  in  the  full  light  of  day, 
and  that  it  has  hidden  emotions  and  impulses 
which  I  do  not  understand." 


CHAPTER  XII. 


"BLANDES  OF  THE  GREEN  SHUTTERS." 

"Blandes  of  the  Green  Shutters!"  When  Davi- 
dee  awoke  very  late  on  a  July  morning,  in  the 
chamber  never  occupied  by  any  one  save  herself, 
where  the  flowers,  picked  for  her,  fading  for  her, 
and  giving  out  on  her  arrival  their  odour  of  the 
moors,  had  wrapped  her  in  memories,  she  did 
not  feel  like  ringing  her  bell  at  once.  At  the 
first  tinkle,  it  would  be  her  mother  who  would 
answer  the  call ;  her  Httle  mother  whom  Davidee 
guessed  to  be  already  up  and  partly  dressed,  her 
hair  in  the  famihar  tight  gray  knot  on  the  top 
of  her  head  and  held  in  place  by  the  old-fashioned 
comb  of  hght  shell  which  she  remembered  always; 
her  mother  who  had  grown  more  tiny  each  year, 
who  was  surely  on  the  watch  now  in  the  adjoin- 
ing room  amid  the  familiar  morning  sounds, 
for  the  unusual,  the  longed-for  cry  which  would 
bring  her  running  to  the  bedside:  "Mamma! 
I  am  awake,  mamma!"  No,  not  quite  yet.  She 
rose  first,  noiselessly,  slipped  on  a  wrapper,  and 
threw  open  her  window,  pushing  up  the  Vene- 
tian blinds  through  which  the  light  cast  a  score 
of  little  bars  of  shadow  to  the  right  and  left, 
which  grew  distincter  each  minute.  "It  must 
be  past  eight,"  she  thought,   "and  at  Ardesie 

255 


256  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

we  should  be  in  the  school-room  at  this  hour." 
The  north  window  which  she  had  opened  looked 
out  upon  the  flat  shores  of  a  bay  without  cliffs 
or  beach.  One  had  to  bend  far  out  for  a  glimpse 
of  the  oozy  tide.  Before  her  eyes  stretched  a 
marsh  melting  into  meadows,  then  distant  low 
hills  lost  in  the  mists  of  the  horizon.  Trees  were 
a  scarcely  appreciable  feature  of  this  flat  shore. 
The  marsh-grass  was  everywhere,  tawny  yellow 
as  far  as  the  winter  tides  rolled  in,  and  greener 
beyond,  spreading  out  hke  an  endless  fan.  "  Open, 
eyes!  and  recognize  your  youth  which  is  there 
before  you,  which  rises  from  the  reeds  and  rushes 
and  greets  you  with  the  laughter  of  your  early 
days!"  Davidee  had  promised  herself  great  de- 
light in  this  home-coming,  in  this  first  good- 
morning  to  the  landscape  of  her  childhood.  She 
had  felt  it  often  before,  but  this  morning,  in  spite 
of  the  sunshine  which  rolled  in  warm  waves  over 
the  grasses  and  the  still  tender  grain,  she  re- 
mained unmoved — and  wondered  to  find  it  so — 
and  discovered  that  she  had  left  her  heart  behind 
her  in  unfertile  Ardesie,  with  her  school  children, 
her  daily  cares,  and  perhaps  with  the  songs  of 
that  Maieul,  who  had  left  it  for  her  sake.  She 
had  a  sense  of  disappointment  as  if  she  had  seen 
a  flower  fading  in  her  girdle. 

''Good-morning,  darling!  Good-morning,  be- 
loved!" 

Mamma  Birot  had  come  in  and  was  embrac- 
ing her  child,  then  drawing  back  to  look  at  her 
better.  All  her  disappointment  had  not  had 
time  to  disappear  from  the  girl's  face;  it  still 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  257 

cast  a  shadow,  though  it  was  vanishing,  but  her 
mother  had  noticed  it. 

"You  are  not  well." 

"Oh,  perfectly,  and  delighted  to  be  in  Blandes. 
Is  papa  better?" 

"You  are  tired  from  your  night  journey,  child?" 

"No,  I  have  just  waked.  From  two  in  the 
morning  until  eight  is  a  fairly  good  nap.  No, 
I  am  not  tired  at  all,  mamma." 

"Then  you  have  some  trouble;  some  one  has 
been  annoying  you,  or  you  have  had  a  dispute 
with  the  directress.  They  are  not  treating  you 
kindly,  is  not  that  it?  I  guessed  it.  Those 
Ardesie  people  are  making  my  child's  life  hard. 
They  cannot  understand  what  a  treasure  they 
have  in  her.  Poor  darling!  why  did  you  leave 
me  who  understand  you?  Tell  me  what  they 
have  done  to  you." 

The  yoimg  teacher  smiled;  she  sat  facing  her 
mother  in  the  full  light  of  morning;  she  had 
taken  in  hers  the  poor,  thin,  knotted  hands  which 
trembled  at  every  heart-beat;  she  hastened  to 
pour  forth  the  genuine  tenderness  and  gratitude 
that  were  in  her  heart.  In  her  own  bright,  gay 
fashion  she  described  the  distribution  of  prizes, 
the  departure,  the  unemotional  farewell  between 
herself  and  Mile.  Desforges,  the  night  journey  from 
Ardesie  to  Nantes,  from  Nantes  to  Blandes.  Her 
mother,  without  interrupting  the  flow  of  her  nar- 
rative, and  merely  because  she  could  not  post- 
pone her  words  of  love  and  welcome,  kept  mur- 
muring: "You  are  prettier  than  ever,  though 
your  lips  are  a  trifle  paler,  Davidee;  but  how 
clever  they  look,  cleverer  even  than  they  used  to, 


258  DAVIDEEBIROT 

and  they  look  kind  besides.  Your  pupils  ought 
to  be  happy!  I  believe  your  hair  is  turning 
chestnut,  Da\ddee,  and  what  quantities  you  have ! 
More  than  when  you  were  a  child.  What  braids ! 
they  remind  me  of  one  of  the  statues  in  the 
museum.  Oh,  my  pretty  one,  whom  I  brought 
into  the  world!"  But  when  the  narrative  flagged 
a  little,  she  grew  anxious,  and  interrupted  it  by 
asking: 

"What  ails  you,  child?  Tell  me  your  secret. 
You  are  not  quite  the  same  as  when  you  left  us 
at  Easter." 

Davidee  would  have  preferred  not  to  relate 
at  once  the  story  of  the  inspector's  visit  and  the 
incidents  which  had  brought  it  about.  She  had 
promised  herself  that  she  would  let  a  few  days 
pass  in  peace,  and  choose  her  hour  for  speaking 
to  her  father.  But  the  ardent  tenderness  of  her 
mother  would  suffer  no  delay;  her  imagination, 
which  magnified  everything  for  lack  of  subjects 
to  feed  upon,  would  be  ready  on  the  slightest 
suspicion,  at  a  shade  of  difference  in  her  daugh- 
ter's eyes  or  smile,  to  invent  a  dozen  stories,  and 
her  poor  Httle  frame  would  have  worn  itself  out 
in  tears  and  anxieties  if  the  child  had  refused  to 
tell  her  all.  It  was  better  therefore  and  safer, 
to  tell  her  the  truth  at  once.  As  soon  as  Madame 
Birot  learned  the  persecution  for  her  opinions 
to  which  her  child  was  being  subjected,  she  said: 

"If  it  were  my  case  I  should  yield,  since  it 
does  not  concern  your  home  life;  but  you  are  like 
your  father,  and  put  all  your  pride  into  public 
affairs.    We  must  warn  Birot  this  morning." 

"To-day?" 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  259 

"Yes." 

She  had  again  become  the  capable  housewife, 
who  orders  quietly  and  with  a  submissive  air, 
everything  which  goes  on  under  her  roof. 

"The  day,  however,  is  the  most  ill-chosen  one 
you  can  imagine,"  she  said;  "I  was  not  expecting 
you  to-night.  I  had  put  those  flowers  in  your 
room  so  that  I  might  say  to  myself  each  time  I 
entered :  '  She  is  on  the  way,  she  is  coming,  they 
will  be  fresh  when  she  arrives.'  But  I  did  not 
think  you  could  get  here  so  early.  Listen!  this 
morning,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  doctor  will  be 
here." 

"Is  my  father  not  so  well?" 

"No,  he  is  very  ill,  and  has  been  so  a  long  while; 
ever  since  he  gave  up  his  business.  It  is  sad 
for  an  inteUigent  man  like  him  to  have  nothing 
to  do,  and  he  is  kilKng  himself  by  drinking.  His 
hands  tremble  and  refuse  to  do  his  bidding;  his 
head  shakes;  he  still  tries  to  attend  to  business 
but  he  takes  more  time  to  accomplish  much  less 
than  formerly.  His  brains  are  as  good  as  ever, 
you  know;  he  is  as  much  feared  as  in  his  youth, 
and  more  terrible,  only  his  enemies  are  in  greater 
numbers;  he  has  no  longer  a  chief  to  fight  but  an 
army  which  is  on  the  watch  for  him  to  die  or 
weaken,  and  he  feels  it.  As  I  tell  you,  he  is  ter- 
rible. The  house  is  filled  only  with  my  silence 
and  his  tempers."  Then  she  added,  while  her  lips, 
accustomed  to  self-control,  scarcely  ventured  to 
form  a  timid  smile: 

"And  yet  with  me  he  is  gentler  than  he  used  to 
be.". 


260  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

They  chatted  a  few  minutes  together  until  the 
door-bell  announced  the  doctor's  arrival. 

"Come,  dearest!"  said  the  mother. 

In  his  office,  with  its  pitch-pine  wood-work  and 
chairs  covered  with  cretonne  of  oriental  designs, 
Monsieur  Birot  was  dozing  when  Davidee  entered. 

"Oho!  the  little  one!"  he  cried,  while  the  blood 
rushed  to  his  face,  and  two  tears  rolling  down 
his  cheeks  betrayed  his  broken  condition.  The 
quarry-master  had  risen  to  embrace  his  child, 
bending  his  great  head  to  kiss  her  first  upon  the 
right  cheek,  then  on  the  left;  then  he  had  seized 
her  by  the  shoulders  and  was  hugging  her,  bear 
fashion,  as  he  said: 

"You  are  going  to  make  me  well!  They  never 
let  me  know  that  you  had  come.  Why  didn't 
they  tell  me?" 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  again,  and 
Madame  Birot  entered,  followed  by  the  doctor. 

"Confound  it!"  cried  Birot,  "what  does  this 
fellow  want  of  me?"  And  with  another  sudden 
rush  of  blood,  swelling  and  purpling  his  face,  he 
made  signs  expressing  absolute  refusal  to  see  the 
doctor,  casting  furious  glances  of  defiance  at  him 
meanwhile,  and  pointing  toward  the  door,  though 
no  words  came. 

Suddenly  he  burst  into  a  great  laugh,  and 
fell  back  into  his  cretonne  arm-chair;  and  hav- 
ing gradually  recovered  control  of  his  lower  jaw, 
which  opened  and  closed  mechanically,  straining 
the  muscles  of  his  neck: 

"Egad!  my  girl,"  he  cried,  "you  shall  see 
how  little  these  gentlemen  know!    You  expect  to 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  261 

cure  me,  do  you,  doctor?  You  came  at  Madame 
Birot's  request?  Yes,  I  imderstand.  She  has 
undoubtedly  told  you  all  my  complaints.  I  have 
several,  but  what  she  has  already  told  you  will 
serve  to  shorten  your  visit.  What  do  you  order 
for  me?    Let  us  see!" 

The  doctor,  a  red-haired  man  with  a  sandy 
beard  as  stiff  as  a  sheaf  of  wheat,  patient  with  the 
combined  patience  of  his  peasant  stock  and  of  his 
profession,  answered  slowly: 

"  We  must  first,  Monsieur  Birot,  feel  your  pulse 
and  examine  your  lungs." 

"Do  it  then!" 

With  a  vigorous  movement,  as  if  he  were  break- 
ing stones,  the  Mayor  of  Blandes  tore  off  his 
collar,  unbuttoned  his  vest  and  opened  his  shirt. 

"Here's  the  chest!"  he  said.  And  looking  over 
the  head  of  the  doctor,  who  was  bending  forward 
to  sound  him,  he  glanced  at  Davidee,  as  if  to  show 
her  that  what  he  was  doing  was  solely  on  her 
account,  and  out  of  obedience  to  her  wishes. 

"Well,"  he  said,  when  the  examination  was 
ended.  "Now  what  do  you  advise,  doctor? 
What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  I  know  it  all  be- 
forehand. My  wife  has  already  prompted  your 
prescription:    'Give  up  drinking.'" 

"That  is  exactly  it." 

"Give  up  living  then!" 

"On  the  contrary;  live  much  longer." 

"Go  on  living  without  any  resources,  any 
companions,  any  pleasures!  Look  here!  I  have 
toiled  forty  years  to  earn  my  fortune;  I  have 
worked  harder  than  any  of  my  mates;  I  have  been 


262  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

steadier;  I  have  been  helped,  too,  by  an  economical 
wife." 

This  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  openly  done 
justice  to  his  wife,  who  remained  silent  in  her 
corner  of  the  room,  but  gave  a  little  nod  of  agree- 
ment, with  a  glance  at  her  daughter,  who  was 
there  to  judge  between  them. 

"The  men  at  the  stone-works,"  Birot  went  on, 
"my  workmen,  all  drink;  why  shouldn't  I  who 
am  rich,  drink  too?  What  do  you  want  me  to 
do,  then?" 

The  young  doctor  who,  somewhat  intimidated 
by  Davidee's  presence,  sat  rubbing  his  knees 
with  his  hands,  made  a  little  grimace  at  this, 
which  expressed  many  things. 

"There  are  dozens  of  things  for  an  intelligent 
man  Uke  you  to  do.  Monsieur  Birot." 

"Such  as  what?" 

"You  can  read." 

"What  shall  I  read?" 

"\^Tiatever  you  like,  novels " 

"They  bore  me  to  death,  they  are  all  about 
a  world  I  know  nothing  of." 

"The  newspapers." 

"They  all  say  the  same  thing  one  after  another." 

"Works  of  popular  science." 

"I  can't  understand  them.  See  here,  doctor! 
j^ou  are  wasting  your  time.  I  was  born  to  work 
in  stone,  to  give  orders  to  my  workmen,  and  then 
to  rest  by  getting  tipsy  with  them;  but  as  to 
reading,  no!  It's  my  daughter  there  who  reads 
for  me,  and  I  drink  for  her;  that's  the  way  we 
conduct  our  lives." 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  263 

Here  he  burst  into  another  laugh,  feehng  that 
he  had  made  a  telHng  retort. 

"Work  in  the  garden/'  pursued  the  doctor; 
'^  a  garden  Hke  yours " 

"After  an  hour  of  it  I  am  done  up." 

"Travel  then!  spend  your  money  in  taking 
journeys." 

"I  have  tried  that  already." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Davidee;  "we  went  to 
Biarritz  during  the  last  long  vacation." 

"Yes,  and  stayed  in  grand  hotels;  but  what  she 
doesn't  tell  you  is,  that  I  felt  like  a  fool  in  them." 

"Oh,  no.  Monsieur!" 

"You  needn't  try  to  convince  me!  I  am  just 
a  workman — a  stone-cutter — and  I  have  a  work- 
man's habits;  one  can't  make  oneself  over,  and 
change  all  one's  ideas  of  enjoyment;  they  are  a 
matter  of  habit  and  in  the  blood.  Why  don't 
you  advise  me  to  be  a  doctor?" 

"Why  not  play  cards,  rather?" 

"Because  as  soon  as  I  lose  ten  sous  at  'Ma- 
nilla' I  feel  as  badly  as  if  I  had  lost  my  house. 
That's  in  the  blood,  too — frugality!  I  can't  go 
in  for  high-life,  I  can't  play  cards,  nor  dress,  nor 
talk  as  those  people  do,  nor  take  part  in  their 
amusements.     Leave  me  alone,  will  you?" 

He  rose  as  he  said  this,  heavy  and  solid  still. 
His  patience  and  good-humour  were  exhausted. 
"Let  me  alone  with  all  your  drugs!  I  have  a 
mighty  thirst  on  account  of  the  stone.  A  man 
dies  of  his  job;  I  shall  die  of  mine,  for  stone-cut- 
ters always  drink  too  hard.  Enough  said!  It's 
time  to  go  out  and  find  my  mates." 


264  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  Madame  Birot,  while 
David^e  was  seeing  the  resigned  doctor  out.  "I 
have  something  to  tell  you." 

"Say  it  later  then." 

"It  is  about  our  daughter,  who  has  been  un- 
justly treated." 

"Oh,  that's  different!  If  any  one  touches  our 
child,  that's  a  thing  I  can  never  forgive." 

Davidee  had  just  re-entered.  "  What  is  it,  little 
one?" 

"The  primary  inspector " 

Birot  who  was  bending  his  back  to  sit  down 
again,  stopped  half-way,  and  gave  her  a  sidelong 
glance.     "It's  some  business  with  a  cure,  I  bet." 

"Yes,  papa." 

"I  don't  like  that  sort  of  thing,  but  come,  all 
the  same." 

The  girl  had  seated  herself  on  a  chair  close 
beside  her  father,  and  patted  his  hands,  feeling 
that  the  cause  was  gained.  The  longer  she 
talked  the  stronger  grew  his  admiration  for  this 
daughter  who  was  so  Hke  himself;  who  was  afraid 
of  no  one;  who  could  hold  her  own  and  maintain 
her  rights,  and  who,  besides,  could  talk  so  well. 
His  eyes  grew  animated;  his  lips  were  com- 
pressed, and  an  occasional  brief  oath  burst  forth. 
Birot  expanded  body  and  soul,  rejuvenated  by 
his  wrath.  He  was  inwardly  exercising  his  ar- 
gumentative faculties;  the  words  he  planned  to 
say  threw  their  reflection  across  his  face.  He 
shmgged  his  shoulders  from  time  to  time,  he 
drew  himself  up  and  began  tugging  at  his  huge 
moustache,  which  would  soon  rise  and  bristle 


DAVIDEEBIROT  265 

under  the  torrents  of  violent  words  he  would  be 
hurling  full-mouthed — at  whom?  He  knew  al- 
ready, he  had  planned  the  whole  affair,  he  had 
prepared  his  arguments,  as  he  suddenly  exclaimed, 
patting  Davidee  on  the  cheek: 

"I  shall  certainly  not  go  to  the  tavern  this 
morning.  Mamma,  give  us  an  early  breakfast. 
I  am  off  to  see  the  prefect." 

"What!    At  La  Rochelle?" 

"Yes." 

"Remember  that  only  yesterday  you  could  not 
walk,  you  had  the  gout  so  badly." 

"I  haven't  it  any  longer." 

An  unaccustomed  sense  of  enjoyment  gave 
freedom  to  Birot's  movements,  and  showed  in 
the  tones  of  his  voice  and  the  flash  of  his  eyes 
which  had  been  dulled  for  weeks.  When  he  left 
the  house,  wearing  his  broad  black  felt-hat,  and 
a  suit  of  heavy  tweeds,  which  was  his  full  dress 
attire  summer  and  winter,  with  the  addition  of 
a  red  necktie,  and  carrying  a  stick  in  his  hand, 
his  wife  said  to  him : 

"Birot,  one  would  swear  you  were  going  to  a 
public  meeting." 

"Precisely;  that  is  just  what  it  is." 

"But  you  cannot  go  all  the  way  on  foot,  you 
know!  Ask  Caderotte  to  harness  his  mare  and 
take  you;  he  cannot  refuse,  he  is  under  such  ob- 
ligations to  you." 

"My  poor  wife!  If  I  did  that,  he  would  con- 
sider them  all  cancelled.  Let  me  manage  this 
business." 

He  had  reckoned  on  the  fact  that  at  the  hour 


266  DAVIDEEBIROT 

when  he  would  be  starting — at  about  eleven — 
there  would  be  every  chance  of  his  encountering 
on  the  road  some  neighbour's  gig,  or  at  the  worst 
a  market  cart  or  fish  cart  which  would  offer  him 
a  lift.  It  was  in  fact  the  poulterer  who  came  in 
sight  first  and  took  the  big  man  along  as  extra 
baggage.  He  had  a  horse  that  trotted  as  fast 
as  a  young  colt  following  its  mother,  so  that  at 
ten  minutes  before  noon  Monsieur  Birot  entered 
the  antechamber  of  the  prefecture. 

"Shall  I  announce  Monsieur  Birot?"  said  the 
usher. 

"Leave  off  the  'Monsieur'  and  say  'Birot  is 
here.'  When  I  have  no  fine  speeches  to  make 
I  prefer  to  call  myself  plain  'Birot.'" 

"As  you  like." 

Accordingly  the  Mayor  of  Blandes  was  intro- 
duced into  the  prefect's  office,  where  that  official, 
who  was  a  young  man,  though  already  somewhat 
bald,  came  forward  to  greet  him  with  extended 
hand,  but  with  an  air  of  reserve  and  without 
effusion.  He  was  of  a  cautious  nature  and  never 
showed  cordiality  except  to  a  parting  guest. 

"My  dear  Monsieur  Birot,  I  have  only  five 
minutes  to  spare." 

"That  will  be  sufficient.  Monsieur  le  Prefet." 

"Pray  be  seated.  Is  it  a  harvest  permit  you 
have  come  to  ask  me  for?    If  so,  it  is  granted." 

"No." 

"Indemnity  for  a  dead  cow  then?"  and  the 
great  man  laughed  at  his  own  wit,  but  Birot  did 
not  smile. 

"No,  it  is  a  permit  allowing  a  teacher  to  carry 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  267 

a  good-sized  prayer-book  when  attending  the 
funeral  of  one  of  her  scholars." 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,  I  infer." 

"Not  at  all.  I  am  making  an  appeal  to  you; 
the  teacher  is  my  daughter." 

"Mademoiselle  Birot?" 

"  Yes,  Davidee,  who  is  assistant  at  Ardesie.  She 
has  been  denounced,  and  I  do  not  choose  to  have 
her  bothered.   You  understand.   I  won't  have  it!" 

"But  this  is  entirely  outside  my  jurisdiction, 
Monsieur  Birot.     I  can  do  nothing  for  you." 

Birot,  who  had  buried  himself  a  little  too  deeply 
in  the  easy-chair  offered  him  by  the  prefect,  now 
sat  forward  on  its  very  edge,  with  both  hands 
supported  on  his  thighs  and  his  fingers  extended. 
Above  the  glasses  which  he  had  planted  on  his 
nose,  he  glared  for  a  moment  at  that  functionary 
as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  glaring  at  his  opponents 
before  replying  to  them.  He  almost  invariably 
succeeded  in  cowing  them,  so  much  did  the  fury 
in  his  eyes  add  force  to  his  words.  His  hands 
w^re  clenched  at  his  sides  merely  to  conceal  the 
violence  with  which  they  shook.  The  prefect, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  leaning  back  in  his  wicker 
chair  with  his  lips  pursed  as  if  he  held  a  cigarette 
between  them. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Birot  in  a  voice  which  he 
controlled  with  difficulty,  "I  am  applying  to  you 
because  you  are  our  clerk " 

"Your  clerk!    Upon  my  word!" 

"Perhaps  I  express  myself  badly,  but  I  know 
perfectly  well  what  I  mean.  You  are  a  clerk 
appointed  to  get  your  constituents  out  of  dif- 


268  DAVIDEEBIROT 

ficulties  whenever  they  need  you,  to  help  along 
our  side  and  destroy  the  others." 

"That  is  a  simplified  conception  of  the  office, 
Monsieur  Birot!" 

The  prefect's  laugh  as  he  said  this  was  dis- 
pleasing to  the  stone-cutter,  who  no  longer  re- 
strained his  voice. 

"Simplified  or  not,  I  don't  care  a  hang!  I  am 
addressing  myself  to  you  because  I  hold  you  in 
my  hand,  and  it  is  not  my  place  to  apply  to  others. 
Outside  of  the  department,  what  is  Pere  Birot? 
Nobody.    "Whereas,  just  here,  I  am  a  power " 

"A  man  who  has  rendered  great  services,  I  do 
not  deny  it." 

"Services?  No  I  don't  call  them  that.  I  am 
a  man  who  rules  other  men,  who  knows  them 
far  better  than  you  ever  will,  who  knows  all  their 
special  weaknesses,  who  sees  how  they  live,  and 
gets  them  to  vote  for  him,  or  to  vote  as  he  does. 
I  serve  myself  first,  and  I  don't  mind  serving  you 
later.    But  on  one  condition " 

"I  cannot  admit  threats  of  this  kind." 

"That  doesn't  matter!  I  can  execute^them.  I 
tell  you  that  this  inspector  who  has  denounced 
my  daughter  must  repair  his  injustice!" 

"I  cannot  concern  myself  with  your  affair." 

"Very  well  then!  I  will  concern  myself  with 
yours.     Do  you  understand?" 

Birot  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was  shaking  his 
fist  in  the  face  of  the  important  functionary,  who 
had  risen  also,  stupefied  and  vaguely  alarmed  at 
seeing  these  clenched  fists  and  blazing  eyes  so 
near  him. 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  269 

"Monsieur  le  Maire!" 

"I  am  going  to  demolish  it  for  you,  your  com- 
mune of  Blandes!  I  will  fix  your  administration 
for  you!  I  will  let  them  know  how  you  refuse 
me  justice  and  how  you  treat  the  democracy!" 

"Monsieur  Birot,  you  are  asking  an  impossible 
thing." 

"So  you  think  me  superannuated  too!  You 
think  I  am  done  for !  They  have  been  telling  you 
so?  Well,  Monsieur  le  Prefet,  this  will  per- 
haps be  my  last  campaign,  but  I  swear  to  you 
that  I  will  win  it.  I  have  the  honour  of  bidding 
you  good  day!"  He  took  up  his  hat,  clapped  it 
on  his  head  inadvertently,  and  stalked  toward 
the  door. 

The  prefect  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"I  am  distressed  to  have  to  refuse  you,  but 
you  must  be  aware  that  directly,  I  am  unable  to 
give  you  satisfaction." 

The  Mayor  of  Blandes  made  no  reply  beyond 
a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  as  he  withdrew.  He 
marched  away  triumphantly  with  his  adverb. 
"Didn't  he  have  a  bad  time  of  it,  getting  out 
his  'directly'?'^  growled  the  good  man  as  he  de- 
scended the  stairs.  "Didn't  he  though!  I  began 
to  think  it  would  never  come." 

It  was  late  afternoon,  and  the  exasperating 
hours,  when  flies,  wasps,  and  hornets  are  reaping 
their  invisible  harvest  in  the  air,  were  giving 
place  to  the  languor  of  evening  before  the  re- 
freshing breezes  rise,  as  Birot,  whom  no  one  had 
heard  enter,  approached  the  arbour  where  his  wife 
and  daughter  were  sewing  in  the  shade.    The 


270  D  A  VI  DEE    BIRO  T 

sand  crunching  under  his  feet  made  more  noise 
than  the  whole  village  of  Blandes  together,  so 
that  the  two  women  raised  their  heads  and  stayed 
their  busy  needles.  "Well!  what  news?"  asked 
David^e.  Madame  Birot  asked  nothing,  but  it 
was  to  her  that  the  big  man  made  reply,  out 
of  breath  and  mopping  his  face,  but  with  eyes 
flashing  keenly  above  his  handkerchief  as  he 
passed  it  across  his  cheeks.  "I  have  no  need 
of  a  doctor  yet.  Mamma  Birot.  I  can  still  doivn 
my  prefect  like  a  yomiger  man!"  and  patting  his 
daughter's  cheek,  he  added:  "I  am  sure  they 
will  write  to  you,  little  one.  It  won't  surprise 
me  at  all  if  they  order  you,  in  future,  always 
to  carry  a  huge  antiphonaire  when  you  attend 
funerals!  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  but  I  must 
go  and  take  my  coat  off  first." 

David^e  thanked  him  by  a  deep  glance  of  her 
dark  eyes,  a  glance  that  seemed  to  say:  "Why 
are  you,  who  can  direct  others,  so  weak  where 
you  are  yourself  concerned,  my  poor  father; 
you,  who  are  on  the  road  to  madness?" 

The  industrious  needles  began  again  to  fly 
along  the  white  seams,  and  beneath  the  branches 
of  the  honeysuckle,  moist  with  drippings  of 
honey  and  haunted  by  bees,  the  talk  was  re- 
sumed between  Madame  Birot  and  her  daughter 
— their  first  leisurely,  confidential  talk.  "It  is 
true  then,  mamma,  that  you  have  never  felt  the 
need  of  religious  behef?" 

"Your  father  would  never  have  allowed  me 
to  think  differently.  He  has  his  political  views; 
I  should  only  have  broken  up  our  household. 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  271 

Besides,  I  am  a  believer,  such  as  we  all  are  around 
here.    What  do  you  call  believing,  child?" 

"Accepting  God  and  through  Him  rising  above 
the  life  we  lead  and  judging  it." 

"I  leave  it  to  your  father  to  judge,  and  I  also 
accept  the  judgment  of  the  neighbours  and  of 
my  own  conscience.  Doesn't  your  conscience  suf- 
fice for  you?" 

"No,  it  is  so  hard  to  be  sure,  wdthout  some 
fixed  standard.  When  you  were  at  a  loss,  did 
you  not  seek  counsel?" 

"Never." 

"You  have  never  known  my  difficulties,  that 
is  evident." 

A  bee  half  drunk  with  honeysuckle  wine^  and 
clinging  to  a  dead  leaf,  fell  upon  the  white  cloth, 
and  Davidee  brushed  him  off  with  her  thimble. 

"I  am  trying  to  train  consciences,  dear  mother, 
and  I  feel  that  they  escape  me,  that  they  are 
perishing  like  new-born  babies  who  have  been 
entrusted  to  my  care,  and  for  whom  I  have  no 
nourishment.  I  have  nothing  but  maternal  an- 
guish." 

"AVhat  are  you  saying?  Do  you  not  follow 
the  school  programme?" 

"Oh,  mother!  I  follow  it  only  too  closely!  I 
ignore  everything  outside  it.  I  am  in  doubt 
about  all  the  essentials  of  life.  I  have  merely 
intelligence  enough  to  see  the  great  problems, 
not  to  solve  them.  And  so  I  am  tempted  to 
believe  and  to  pray." 

"You,  Davidee?" 

"And  yet  I   remain   doubtful  and   troubled, 


272  DAVIDEEBIROT 

and  that  leaves  me  neither  wise  enough  nor  good 
enough,  neither  a  tme  guardian,  nor  a  sister, 
nor  a  mother,  and  my  brood  is  immense  and 
cries  at  my  knees,  and  I  ask  myself  why  I  was 
sent  to  these  little  ones,  destitute  as  I  am." 

''If  your  father  heard  you,  how  angry  he 
would  be!" 

"To  such  questions,  mamma,  anger  brings  no 
solution.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been  given 
tiny  Hghted  candles,  Hke  those  which  you  used 
to  put  round  a  Savoy  cake  on  my  birthday:  at 
nine  years  old,  nine  Httle  candles;  at  ten  years, 
ten  httle  candles,  and  so  on.  And  I  have  not 
blown  them  out,  oh  no!  but  they  have  all  gone 
out  between  my  fingers,  and  the  odour  of  their 
dead  flame  haunts  me." 

Madame  Birot,  who  always  worked  as  busily 
as  a  spider,  never  stopping  when  she  had  begun 
to  spin  her  web — white  or  black — now  let  her 
two  hands  fall  idly  in  her  lap. 

"Da\ddee,"  she  said  gravely,  "you  worry  and 
grieve  me,  because  I  cannot  follow  where  you  are 
going,  I  ought  not;  but  I  know  where  you  will 
end!" 

"But  I  do  not  know,  mamma.  I  am  sure  only 
that  I  no  longer  have  the  thoughts  of  my  youth. 
I  can  no  longer  sleep,  as  they  sleep  here  in  Blandes." 

The  mother  sighed,  as  she  took  up  her  needle 
again,  and  bent  over  her  work  with  reddened 
eyelids. 

"  I  would  rather  not  talk  of  that,"  she  said  sadly. 
"Leave  me  my  sleep,  which  I  call  peace!" 

"Peace  means  to  me  to  draw  the  deep  breath 


DAVIDEEBIROT  273 

of  certainty,  so  full  and  pure  and  calm!  I  have 
not  attained  it." 

"Let  us  talk  of  other  things,  Davidee.  All  this 
is  beyond  a  poor  old  mother  Hke  me." 

They  spoke  no  more.  Never  had  words  hke 
these  passed  between  them,  under  the  shade  of 
the  vine-clad  arbour,  never  had  such  words  been 
uttered  by  them  in  the  white  house,  and  none 
of  the  neighbouring  houses  would  have  under- 
stood their  meaning. 

From  the  Green  Diary. — "July  thirty-first:  My 
father  was  to  tell  us  at  dinner  of  his  conversation 
with  the  prefect,  but  fatigue  and,  alas,  other 
reasons — of  daily  occurrence — barely  suffered  him 
to  utter  a  few  broken  phrases  and  disjointed 
words  which  meant  nothing.  The  most  painful 
part  of  it  all  was  my  father's  consciousness  of 
his  declining  faculties,  and  of  the  cause,  and  how 
irremediable  it  is.  My  mother  tried  to  talk  with 
me  and  fill  up  these  painful  gaps  in  the  con- 
versation, but  these  attempts  irritated  father, 
who  saw  in  them  merely  an  interruption  and  a 
lack  of  attention  toward  himself,  appealing  to 
me  to  sustain  him  in  this  \dew.  It  grieved  me 
to  feel  that  mother  had  longed  for  this  evening — 
my  first  at  home — looking  forward  to  it  as  the 
greatest  joy  of  the  year,  a  compensation  for 
many  other  evenings.  At  eight  o'clock  she  went 
up  to  her  room  to  make  sure  that  my  father  had 
gone  to  bed  and  had  not  yielded  to  the  tempta- 
tion to  rejoin  at  the  cross-roads  of  Blandes  those 
whom  he  calls  his  friends.  WTien  she  left  me  I 
went  out  for  a  walk;  the  evening  was  still  warm 


274  DAVIDEEBIROT 

and  bright.  In  the  half-lighted  cottages  I  could 
see  mothers  passing  back  and  forth,  and  catch 
white  gleams  from  the  dishes  they  were  carrying, 
or  the  pillows  for  some  little  bed.  All  the  youths 
of  the  \dllage,  and  the  old  men  as  well,  were 
seated  or  standing  in  the  door-waj^s  of  the  freshly 
painted  houses,  mostly  in  dull  silence.  As  I 
passed  they  raised  their  eyes  and  exchanged  a 
few  words  between  themselves,  always  the  same. 
I  was  greeted  here  and  there  by  a  shght  nod,  but 
they  all  made  me  feel  that  they  no  longer  re- 
garded me  as  one  of  them,  no  longer  as  a  com- 
panion or  a  friend,  and  that  I  had  lost  my  place 
in  the  village.  It  would  take  long  to  regain  it 
and  it  would  never  be  quite  the  same.  I  am  an 
outsider  now,  education  and  absence  have  made 
me  an  aUen  here. 

"The  roads  fringed  by  marsh-grasses,  the  Httle 
paths  marking  the  ancient  curves  of  the  shore, 
gave  me  a  better  welcome.  I  found  again  their 
wonted  silence,  broken  only  by  the  creaking  of 
the  sand  beneath  one's  tread ;  and  the  gleam,  like 
that  of  the  red  moon,  shed  by  the  setting  sun  over 
these  open  spaces  which  belong  to  the  sea  but 
once  or  twice  a  year,  but  through  the  long  inter- 
vening months  are  steeped  in  her  brine  and  sown 
with  her  vegetation. 

"  I  saw  the  sea  far  off,  a  sheet  of  molten  silver, 
not  deep  enough  here  to  form  waves,  its  end- 
less shallows  divided  by  weirs,  like  tall  black 
hedges,  w^here  shell-fish  are  bred.  The  \dsion  of 
this  shore  pursued  me.  In  my  childhood  I  had 
seen  only  its  brightness;  to-day  I  thought:  the 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  275 

tides  rushed  in  along  these  shores  once;  there 
were  tall  ships  here,  the  sound  of  oars,  the  track 
of  incoming  boats  on  the  water.  This  was  a 
busy  port  where  men  formerly  Hved  hves  of 
adventure  and  peril.  But  the  shores  have  risen 
above  the  tide,  and  the  bold  rovers  of  the  open 
sea  enter  here  no  longer;  the  water  bears  only 
formless  craft  which  crawl  along  between  banks 
of  slime, 

"Little  by  little  it  came  over  me  that  I  was 
destined  to  the  same  lot  as  the  landscape;  I  felt 
its  desolation  as  a  personal  grief.  No,  I  will  not 
live  here,  I  will  not  let  the  sand  invade  my  open 
sea!  I  already  belong  to  the  sorrows  which  I 
can  console  and  which  are  life.  And  the  thought 
stole  over  me  that  I  might  learn  to  love  Maieul 
Jacquet.  He  is  without  cultivation,  but  at  least 
his  mind  is  not  distorted  by  the  pride  of  a  little 
learning.  He  is  capable  of  courage,  even  of  that 
highest  courage  which  men  no  longer  exert  when 
they  beheve  themselves  to  be  demi-gods.  He 
knows  himself  to  be  a  man,  a  poor,  weak  man; 
he^has  Hstened  to  a  warning  voice  which  w^as 
partly  mine,  but  still  more  that  of  the  dead  child, 
and  he  has  taken  our  reproofs  as  showing  him  his 
duty,  and  in  order  to  keep  true  to  his  promise, 
he  has  gone  away.  He  must  be  feeling  as  much 
a  stranger  where  he  has  gone  as  I  am  here;  he 
must  be  suffering;  perhaps  he  still  thinks  of  me. 
If  I  were  sure  of  him,  sure  that  he  would  let  me 
guide  him,  I  would  seek  my  path  and  we  would 
follow  it  together.  He  would  not  hold  me  back 
when  I  strove  to  be  better;  he  would  have  con- 


276  DAVIDEEBIROT 

fidence  in  me.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  could 
rise  very  high,  but  he  would  rise  with  me. 

"August  fifth:  I  have  been  trying  to  read 
some  rehgious  books  which  I  found  here  at 
home.  How  did  they  chance  to  be  here  on  the 
shelves  of  a  man  like  my  father,  with  his  strong 
anticlerical  ideas?  Why  were  they  spared  from 
among  the  three  hundred  volumes  or  so,  consigned 
to  the  attic?  I  did  not  dare  to  ask  my  mother. 
But  I  found  two;  it  is  the  more  modem  one  by 
Gratry  that  appeals  to  me  most.  I  find  there 
a  struggling  faith,  or  rather  an  understanding 
of  the  struggles  of  seekers  after  truth,  which  at- 
tracts me.  My  state  is  one  of  trouble,  of  con- 
tradiction, and  feebleness  of  will,  the  dread  of 
sinking  lower  if  I  do  not  change,  the  sick  shrink- 
ing from  effort,  and  utter  soHtude  of  soul.  The 
contemporar}^  masters  of  the  spiritual  life  have 
known  this  anguish  and  it  is  here  that  I  learn  it, 
in  my  father's  house. 

"August  sixth:  My  mother,  who  has  a  gift 
for  penetrating  into  the  valleys  of  one's  mind, 
and  who  has  lost — or  never  possessed — the  taste 
for  the  summits,  has  been  making  me  describe 
to  her,  in  its  minutest  details,  my  life  as  a  teacher; 
she  forgets  nothing;  she  silently  classifies  names, 
dates,  and  descriptions.  This  morning,  on  our 
way  home  from  the  next  village,  with  a  load  of 
provisions — my  arm  still  aches  from  the  weight 
of  the  eggs,  chickens,  and  vegetables  I  carried — 
we  were  talking  about  me,  that  inexhaustible 
subject  of  her  thoughts  for  the  last  twenty-three 
years.    She  was  living  over,  through  the  power 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  277 

of  the  love  within  her,  nearly  all  that  part  of  my 
life  least  known  to  her,  such  as  my  years  at  the 
normal  school,  and  especially  these  last  months 
in  Ardesie.  I  was  watching  her  look  of  joy  at 
being  near  me;  the  fulness  of  contentment  ex- 
pressed in  her  poor  little  pale  face  as  she  trotted 
along  in  my  shadow,  drinking  in  my  voice,  my 
breath,  my  very  soul.  It  was  drizzling,  and  a 
warm  marsh  mist  enveloped  us,  but  she  did  not 
perceive  it.  She  was  rejoiced  to  have  her  hands 
free  and  to  feel  that  there  were  two  of  us,  and  I 
fancied  that  no  thought  of  the  future  mingled 
with  her  pathetic  happiness.  But  I  was  mis- 
taken, she  was  thinking  of  my  future.  She  said 
to  me,  just  as  we  reached  the  Blandes  school- 
house  at  the  entrance  to  the  village,  where  she 
is  used  to  walking  in  silence  for  fear  of  echoes: 
'You  must  marry,  Davidee.  Your  father  has  not 
long  to  live,  I  cannot  take  care  of  you.  Your 
brother  hardly  belongs  to  the  family,  and  will 
give  you  more  care  than  help.  Only  you  will 
not  marry  easily.' 

"'That  is  your  dream,  mamma,  far  more  than 
mine.' 

"'You  could  do  what  I  have  never  been  able 
to  do,  and  that  is:  educate  your  husband.' 

"'With  what?  With  my  alphabet  and  my 
school-books?' 

" '  No,  you  have  a  power  in  you  for  raising  others.' 

'"That  is  why  I  left  you  both.  But  when  I 
was  put  to  the  proof  I  recognized  my  weakness.' 

"I  have  been  deeply  moved  by  her  words:  'a 
power  to  raise  others.'" 


278  DAVIDEEBIROT 

From  the  Green  Diary. — "August  fourteenth: 
Phrosine  is  calling  for  help.  She  writes  to  me: 
'  Mademoiselle  I  have  found  Le  Floch,  he  is  work- 
ing in  the  Forest  of  Vouvant,  which  is  indeed 
a  long  way  from  Sologne.  He  caught  sight 
of  me  and  was  frightened,  and  has  not  reap- 
peared at  the  lodgings  where  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  coming  once  a  week  to  change  his  clothes  and 
sleep  in  a  bed.  I  know  that  he  said:  "She 
wants  me  to  take  her  back ;  but  if  I  find  her  here, 
I  shall  leave  the  country."  He  did  not  have  our 
boy  with  him,  but  I  know  that  he  is  alive,  and 
is  on  a  farm,  but  I  cannot  find  out  where.  Come 
and  help  me!  you  would  not  have  a  very  long 
journey  to  make.  They  tell  me  that  we  are  in 
the  Vendee  here.  You  can  talk  to  Le  Floch  for 
me;  he  would  not  listen  to  me.  If  you  do  not 
come,  my  child  is  lost,  my  only  one.  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  also  that  I  have  no  money  left,  that 
I  owe  several  debts,  and  that  I've  come  to  the 
end  of  my  courage.'" 

The  letter  was  dated  at  a  little  village  on 
the  borders  of  the  great  Vendean  Forest.  Davi- 
dee  hesitated.  What  service  could  she  render? 
Would  they  ask  anything  more  of  her  than  the 
payment  of  a  baker's  bill,  or  a  week's  lodging? 
And  into  what  company  would  she  be  thrown? 
Why  should  she  leave  Blandes?  And  as  she 
still  hesitated,  she  remembered  the  words  spoken 
by  little  Anna!  "I  give  mamma  to  you."  And 
so,  as  soon  as  the  Feast  of  the  Assumption  was 
over,  she  set  out. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


THE  MEETING. 

The  forest  began  a  short  distance  away,  and 
stretched  across  the  whole  horizon.  It  covered 
the  hills  and  valleys  as  far  as  a  distant  knoll 
crowned  with  lofty  old  trees,  which  dominated 
the  scene,  and  whence  poured  across  the  plain  the 
breath  of  the  sea  and  the  sunset  light.  The  sun 
was  descending  rapidly  below  the  forest,  and  the 
colonnade  of  massive  oak  trunks  was  crimsoned 
by  it.  It  was  a  wonderful  moment  of  illumina- 
tion for  the  roots  and  mosses  and  low  bushes 
springing  up  in  the  deeper  glades,  bringing  their 
share  of  light  to  all  the  recesses  buried  in  shadow. 
Beyond  the  forest,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
stretched  a  plain  partly  clothed  with  stubble, 
partly  given  over  to  patches  of  potatoes  and 
strips  of  maize  which  had  not  yet  raised  their 
tiny  tufts  very  high;  a  straight  road  crossed  these 
cultivated  fields.  Along  this  road,  all  through 
the  winter,  carts  descended  laden  with  tall  tree 
trunks  whose  tips  trailed  behind,  tracing  scrawls 
in  the  dust.  Now,  in  the  late  summer,  the  har- 
vest being  over,  hardly  a  creature  was  visible 
on  this  long  ribbon  of  road,  stretching  pale  be- 
tween its  violet  banks.  Two  women,  however, 
were  seated  in  the  window  of  a  room  over  the 

279 


280  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

Cafe  of  the  Wood-cutters,  watching  the  sinkmg 
sun  and  looking  out  for  the  man  whom  they  ex- 
pected to  see  approaching. 

He  had  said  to  the  hostess  the  previous  Satur- 
day: "A  week  hence,  mother,  have  my  two 
shirts  ready  for  me,  and  a  pound  of  lard."  And 
on  the  strength  of  these  words,  Phrosine  and  Davi- 
dee  sat  waiting  for  him,  in  great  trouble  of  mind. 
For  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  thay  had  looked 
anxiously  up  the  road  for  the  figure  of  the  wood- 
cutter descending  the  gentle  slope.  First  he 
would  be  a  tiny  speck  on  the  dusty  expanse, 
gradually  drawing  nearer,  until  the  wife  could 
recognize  the  face  she  had  not  seen  for  so  many 
years,  and  the  man  would  have  to  tell  his  secret, 
upon  which  her  w^hole  future  depended.  "You 
must  let  him  sit  down  to  table;"  Phrosine  said; 
"when  he  has  ordered  a  bottle  of  wine  and  begun 
to  drink  he  will  not  be  so  rude  to  the  people  here 
as  to  go  away  without  gi\'ing  an  account  of  him- 
self. He  is  a  rough  man,  but  more  so  with  me 
than  with  others." 

"Then  shall  I  show  myself?" 

"Yes,  you  can  appear  before  him  on  the  stair- 
case there.  When  he  hears  the  stairs  creak  he 
will  think  it  is  I,  and  will  half  rise  from  his  seat. 
Do  not  be  afraid  of  him  if  he  looks  ugly;  that  will 
only  be  for  me,  not  for  you.  WTien  he  catches 
sight  of  your  white  hands  he  will  see  that  they 
are  no  washer-woman's  hands,  and  he  will  be 
polite  enough;  perhaps  he  will  even  be  afraid  of 
you." 

"But  when  I  tell  him  you  are  there?" 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  281 

Phrosine  shivered,  and  without  ceasing  to  gaze 
up  the  road  said: 

"He  will  fly  into  a  rage,  and  all  will  be  lost — 
perhaps  forever." 

She  had  bent  forward,  leaning  on  the  window- 
bar,  while  Davidee  was  standing  behind  her. 
The  sun  was  now  glowing  red  between  the  oaks, 
and  its  rays  no  longer  falling  on  the  plain,  were 
mustering  an  array  of  clouds  above  the  forest. 
"That  means  a  hot  breeze  to-morrow,"  said 
Phrosine.  "The  reapers  will  have  a  hard  time 
cutting  the  last  crops."  Then  she  was  silent  for 
a  while.  "\ATiat  if  he  doesn't  come?  My  eyes 
are  as  tired  already  as  if  I  had  been  sewing  all 
day." 

"Do  not  look  at  that  red  sky.  Stay  inside 
the  room,  I  will  warn  you  when  he  is  coming." 

"  No,  I  must  see  my  fate  the  moment  it  appears. 
Don't  you  see  somebody  at  the  edge  of  the  for- 
est there?" 

"It  is  only  a  bush.  The  darkness  changes 
everything." 

"He  is  afraid  of  me!  Of  me,  whom  he  once 
courted." 

The  shadows  were  now  falling  and  making  all 
things  alike.  Voices  could  be  heard  calling  here 
and  there  to  summon  a  loiterer  home.  Smoke  was 
rising  from  the  farm-house  chimneys  showing  that 
supper  was  ready.  The  two  women  w^ere  silent, 
and  now  as  they  looked  down,  they  saw  beneath 
the  window  on  the  narrow  road  bordered  by  hedge- 
rows, a  young  girl  appear.  WTiere  had  she  come 
from?   She  was  waiting,  grave  and  trembling,  turn- 


282  DAVIDEEBIROT 

ing  her  head  also  toward  the  sinking  sun.  She  was 
leaning  over  a  stile  and  presently  on  the  further 
side  of  the  hedge  a  young  man  came  in  sight,  tall 
and  agile,  striding  over  the  furrows  of  the  next  field, 
but  with  no  sign  of  haste.  He  was  evidently  flat- 
tered to  find  the  girl  waiting  for  him,  and  his  thin 
face,  which  was  already  losing  its  youthful  fresh- 
ness, beamed  with  self-satisfaction.  The  girl,  on 
seeing  him  approach,  half  closed  her  eyes,  as  if 
for  her  only,  at  this  evening  hour,  the  sunlight 
was  too  bright  to  bear.  The  sweetness  of  her 
dream  of  love  wrapped  her  about,  brought  a 
smile  to  her  Hps,  and  held  her  motionless.  When 
he  was  quite  near,  her  two  virginal  hands,  those 
hands  which  shared  her  dream,  were  stretched 
out  to  him  across  the  hedge,  like  two  lilies  open- 
ing in  the  shade.  He  scarcely  noticed  the  ten- 
der gesture,  but  springing  over  the  gate,  caught 
the  child  in  a  passionate  embrace;  but  the  few 
ardent  words  interchanged  between  the  two  died 
away  before  reaching  as  high  as  the  window  where 
the  two  women  sat  watching.  Only  a  murmur 
of  voices  rose  on  the  air,  and  floated  away,  as 
they  disappeared  across  the  lonely  trackless 
plain.  Phrosine  followed  them  with  a  bitter 
glance.  "Oh!"  she  cried,  "how  happy  that 
miserable  girl  is!" 

At  that  moment  David^e  caught  sight  of  a 
man's  form  detaching  itself  from  the  gloom  of 
the  forest,  and  beginning  to  descend  the  slope. 
"Some  one  is  coming  along  the  road,"  she  said. 
The  other  made  no  answer.  "He  is  walking 
rapidly,  carr}dng  a  small  bundle  on  a  stick  across 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  283 

his  shoulder.  He  has  just  reached  the  cross 
which  stands  in  the  midst  of  that  field  of  maize." 

"Look  what  he  does!  If  he  bows  his  head  it 
is  not  my  man." 

"He  has  passed  without  glancing  at  it.  His 
head  is  turned  toward  the  tavern." 

"Then  it  is  he!" 

Phrosine  had  already  drawn  back  into  the 
darkest  corner  of  the  room  and  Da\idee  stood 
to  one  side  of  the  window,  but  both  continued 
to  gaze  out  at  the  figure  approaching  in  the  djdng 
day,  and  when  he  was  too  near  to  be  visible  from 
above,  they  listened  to  the  sound  of  his  heavy 
shoes  on  the  threshold,  and  the  creak  of  the  latch 
under  the  sudden  jerk  of  his  powerful  hand. 

"Well,  mother!"  a  loud  voice  called  out,  "is 
my  linen  ready?" 

"Certainly,  Monsieur  Le  Floch,  we  have  not 
forgotten  you." 

"Serve  me  a  bottle  of  white  wine  then,  as 
usual.    There  is  nobody  here  at  least?" 

"You  are  my  only  customer,  you  see!" 

The  women  in  the  room  above  did  not  stir, 
for  fear  of  giving  the  he  to  the  landlady's  words. 
They  held  their  breath  in  order  to  hear  every 
movement  which  told  them  that  Le  Floch  was 
taking  his  seat  at  the  table  and  making  himself 
at  home.  The  landlady  uncorked  the  bottle, 
and  he,  having  filled  a  glass,  tossed  off  the  con- 
tents with  a  gurghng  sound  audible  all  over  the 
silent  house.  Having  set  down  his  glass,  Le 
Floch  drew  a  long  breath,  and  puffed  and  panted, 
as  if  overcome  by  the  fatigue  of  the  day's  work 


284  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

and  his  long  tramp.  The  woman  of  the  house 
excused  herself,  saying  that  she  must  attend  to 
her  work;  a  door  was  heard  to  open  and  shut 
behind  her,  then  the  wood-cutters'  cafe  seemed 
wrapt  in  sleep  for  the  night.  At  that  moment 
Davidee  descended  the  stairs,  the  boards  creak- 
ing sHghtly  beneath  her  tread.  From  the  dark- 
ness of  the  stairway  the  wood-cutter  saw  by  the 
light  of  the  one  lamp  suspended  overhead,  first  a 
skirt  trimmed  with  fine  embroidery,  then  a  white 
and  delicate  hand  grasping  the  banister.  The  girl 
paused  a  moment,  with  her  heart  beating  rapidly, 
then  descended  the  remaining  steps  and  advanced 
to  meet  the  man.  The  surprise  was  sufficient 
to  arouse  his  violent  temper,  and  deepen  the 
furrows  on  his  thin,  sallow  face.  He  no  longer 
resembled  a  lion ;  a  narrow,  yellow  beard  fell  over 
his  shabby  velveteen  waistcoat;  his  eyes  were 
blue  and  hard,  and,  apparently  not  in  the  least 
intimidated  by  this  unexpected  apparition,  seemed 
to  ask:  "A^Tio  are  you?  What  do  3^ou  want  with 
me?  Have  I  ever  done  you  any  harm?  What 
have  you  to  charge  me  with,  since  you  are  evi- 
dently not  afraid  of  me?" 

Da\ddee  came  straight  to  the  table  and  said, 
as  the  man  raised  his  hand  to  his  felt-hat : 

"Monsieur  Le  Floch,  I  am  a  friend  of  your 
wife's." 

Instantly  his  face  assumed  a  hostile  expres- 
sion.    "Is  she  here  then?    I  suspected  as  much !" 

"She  has  sent  me  to  speak  to  you,  and  you 
must  listen  to  me,  because  she  forgives  everything, 
and  what  she  asks  of  you  is  merely  justice." 


DAVIDEEBIROT  285 

This  sudden  recall  of  the  wrong  he  had  done, 
this  appeal  to  justice,  and  the  youth  of  the  speaker, 
made  some  impression  on  the  wood-cutter's  mind; 
but  a  disagreeable  smile  crossed  his  thin  Hps  as 
he  said: 

"She  doesn't  want  us  to  come  together  again, 
I  suppose?" 

"No." 

"She  doesn't  want  a  divorce?" 

"No." 

"So  much  the  better!  That  always  gives  a 
lot  of  bother." 

"She  only  wants  to  know  her  son." 

"Oh,  well!  that's  a  different  matter.  We  can 
talk  that  over." 

"Here  she  is,"  repHed  Davidee,  drawing  back. 

The  man's  face  turned  ghastly  pale  on  seeing 
the  woman  who  had  suffered  so  much  at  his 
hands.  She  was  half  laughing,  awkwardly,  and 
without  meaning  to  do  so,  but  in  order  that  he 
might  not  fear  her,  and  that  hatred  might  not 
have  the  first  word  between  them. 

And,  after  all,  she  was  a  woman,  and  in  spite 
of  everything  she  remembered  that  he  had  once 
loved  her.  Upstairs  in  the  dark  room  she  had 
already  smoothed  and  pushed  back  from  her  fore- 
head the  hair  which  brightened  her  face — still 
young  and  bold — whose  anxious  expression  was 
ready  to  change  at  the  least  sign  from  the  man 
before  her. 

Timidly — at  least  in  appearance — she  drew  up 
a  stool  and  seated  herself  between  the  two  rows 
of  cafe  tables.  "It  is  years  since  we  have  seen 
each  other,"  she  said. 


286  DAVIDCE    BIROT 

The  wood-cutter  shook  his  head,  as  if  to  say- 
that  it  was  no  use  tiying  to  move  him. 

"Without  doubt;  what  then?" 

"And  yet  I  must  explain  to  you  how  things 
are.    My  Uttle  girl  is  dead " 

"Ah,  so  much  the  worse!" 

"Our  little  girl,  she  whom  you  never  knew. 
She  died  on  the  fifth  of  May." 

"Of  this  year?" 

"Yes,  just  three  months  ago." 

The  man  appeared  to  be  reflecting,  "Where 
was  I  at  that  time?"  but  he  merely  said: 

"  If  I  had  known  it,  I  would  have  sent  a  wreath. 
But  when  people  are  separated  as  we  are " 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"Are  you  still  a  maid  at  the  school-house?  I 
heard  about  that  through  Flahaut,  who  is  from 
Ard^sie,  and  Pere  Moine." 

"Yes,  but  that  doesn't  give  me  enough  to  live 
on." 

"  I  am  poor,  too;  we  were  both  made  for  poverty 
it  seems." 

"Perhaps  so.  But  I  cannot  be  reconciled  to 
the  death  of  my  child,  unless  the  other  is  given 
back  to  me.  I  wasn't  always  a  good  wife,  but 
one  does  as  one  can,  Henri!  I  am  not  in  the 
habit  of  lying,  as  you  know,  and  I  own  that  there 
are  things  you  can  reproach  me  with;  but  I  have 
always  been  a  mother.  Say,  Le  Floch!  tell  me 
where  my  boy  is,  that  I  may  go  and  fetch  him." 

The  man,  in  spite  of  his  boldness,  hardly  knew 
how  to  answer  when  the  past  was  brought  up; 
there  were  wrongs  to  his  account  too.  But  when 
it  was  a  question  of  this  Uving  son  who  was  still 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  287 

dependent  on  him,  and  whose  whereabouts  he 
alone  knew,  he  was  more  at  his  ease. 

"I  see  what  you  are  after,  Phrosine.  You 
want  to  profit  by  the  boy's  wages?" 

She  answered  "No,"  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"He  earns  a  good  bit  to  be  sure,  but  it  won't 
be  for  you." 

"I  only  want  him.  He  can  keep  his  money 
if  he  chooses." 

"Bah!  Nobody  can  fool  me;  I  had  difficulty 
enough  in  getting  him  away  from  the  Charity 
Board.  They  didn't  want  to  give  him  up,  just 
because  he  had  turned  out  a  big,  promising  lad, 
and  because  I  had  the  appearance,  it  seems,  of  a 
man  who  knows  the  duty  of  children  toward 
their  parents.  It  took  a  lot  of  visits,  and  threats 
too,  before  they  would  let  him  go." 

The  wood-cutter's  impudent  laugh  resounded 
through  the  room. 

"For  the  first  year  or  so  the  boy  was  pretty 
reasonable,  and  helped  his  father  along.  But 
at  present  he  has  changed  his  mind.  He  gives 
nothing  for  nothing.  One  would  think  he  was  a 
bastard,  the  money  sticks  so  to  his  fingers." 

"He  is  not  much  like  you,  certainly." 

The  man  shook  his  head  and  his  lips  curled 
in  a  spiteful  grimace. 

"You  want  to  get  the  better  of  me,  Phrosine. 
But  you  shall  not  have  what  I  couldn't  get.  I 
will  not  tell  you  where  he  is." 

"And  what  if  I  find  him?" 

"I  will  prevent  your  carrying  him  off!    There 


288  DAVIDEEBIROT 

are  gendarmes  about!  It  would  please  you  too 
much  to  make  a  fool  of  me.    I  say  no!" 

"I  implore  you,  Le  Floch!" 

"Not  much  can  be  got  out  of  me  by  prayers, 
as  you  know." 

She  was  about  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet  when 
Davidee  stepped  forward  from  the  shadow  of  the 
staircase. 

" Say  yes.  Monsieur  Le  Floch,"  she  said.  "Tell 
us  the  name  of  the  farm  where  the  child  is,  write 
on  a  page  out  of  my  note-book  that  Phrosine  is 
his  true  mother,  and  in  return  I  will  make  you  a 
present  of  this." 

And  holding  out  a  hundred-franc  note,  she  laid 
it  on  the  table. 

"My  soul!  but  you've  got  rich  friends,  Phro- 
sine," said  the  man.  He  unfolded  the  bill,  blink- 
ing as  if  the  sight  of  it  dazzled  his  eyes,  then 
said:  "Give  me  a  pen.  But  I  warn  you  that  you 
will  get  nothing  out  of  him.  You  are  making  a 
bad  bargain,  you  women!  He  has  a  will  of  his 
own." 

Davidee  tore  a  page  out  of  her  note-book  and 
gave  the  man  her  pencil,  while  Phrosine  looked 
on  in  stupefaction,  as  the  heavy  hand  wrote: 

"  Maurice,  farmer's  boy  at  La  Planche,  near-by, 
the  woman  who  will  hand  you  this  letter  is  your 
mother,  Phrosine.  She  and  I  didn't  agree,  but 
she  is  your  mother.  You  can  obey  her  if  you 
choose. 

"Your  father, 

"Le  Floch." 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  289 

It  was  Davidee  who  took  the  written  sheet 
from  him  and  replaced  it  in  the  note-book  from 
which  she  had  torn  it.  For  a  moment  not  a 
word  was  uttered  in  this  room  where  the  fate  of 
several  beings  had  just  been  bought  and  paid  for. 
The  lamp  swinging  on  a  chain  from  the  ceiling 
cast  its  circle  of  light  upon  the  group.  Le  Floch 
was  the  first  to  recover  full  possession  of  himself. 
"I  mustn't  linger,"  he  said,  turning  toward 
Phrosine,  "there  is  some  one  who  will  be  jealous!" 
A  strange  gleam  of  cruelty  shot  through  his 
hard  blue  eyes.  He  felt  that  he  was  alienating 
his  son,  and  was  avenging  himself. 

"She  won't  have  her  man  passing  the  night 
in  a  tavern.  It's  queer,  Phrosine,  she  has  hair 
the  colour  of  yours,  fox-colour." 

She  drew  herself  up.  "Wolf-colour,  you  mean. 
All  the  same  she  may  not  be  as  handsome  as  I, 
the  wench!    There  is  a  chance  of  it !" 

She  spoke  insolently,  with  her  arms  akimbo, 
looking  handsome  indeed,  her  somewhat  waning 
beauty  rekindled  by  excitement.  The  man  stud- 
ied her  face,  not  without  complacency;  he  seemed 
to  be  recalling  the  sweetheart,  the  bride  of 
old  days,  when  the  neighbours  called  Phrosine 
"the  beautiful  she-wolf."  Then  he  rose  with 
a  sneering  laugh,  exclaiming:  "At  least  she  is 
younger!" 

And  that  was  the  end  of  all  between  them. 
Phrosine  recoiled.  "You  are  the  same  as  ever," 
she  murmured,  "you  have  not  changed."  But 
she  did  not  say  it  too  loudly,  for  fear  the  man 
should    repent    ha\'ing    signed   the  letter.    He, 


290  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

meanwhile,  was  pouring  himself  a  parting  glass, 
which  he  tossed  off  at  one  draught,  after  saying 
to  Phrosine,  as  it  behooved  him  to  do:  "Your 
health!"    Then  he  called  the  hostess. 

"Give  me  my  washing,  mother." 

"Here  it  is." 

He  untied  the  bundle  on  the  end  of  his  stick, 
put  in  the  clean  shirts  in  place  of  the  others,  and 
saluting  Davidee  with  his  hand  to  his  forehead, 
and  without  a  glance  at  his  wife — though  he  was 
conscious  of  her  in  every  drop  in  his  veins — he 
turned  toward  the  door. 

Then  pushing  it  half  open,  and  letting  a  blast 
of  night  wind  blow  through  the  room,  he  said 
in  a  hoarse  voice  which  hid  some  emotion: 

"Now  I  go  back  to  the  forest.  You  won't 
hear  of  me  again." 

And  he  went  his  way,  the  sound  of  his  steps 
echoing  like  fingers  tapping  on  the  window  pane, 
as  they  died  away  in  the  distance;  and  the  vast 
night  poured  over  village  and  fields  its  silent  tide 
of  wind  and  darkness. 

Davidee  scarcely  slept.  She  was  thinking: 
"No  moral  wretchedness  has  ever  moved  me  like 
this.  This  man  and  woman  while  young,  were 
drawn  to  each  other  by  a  mere  physical  attrac- 
tion; they  called  this  love;  and  the  time  while 
it  lasted,  marriage.  Other  temptations  came,  and 
they  had  no  souls  to  resist  them.  What  an  end- 
ing to  that  which  should  have  been  eternal!" 

At  daybreak  the  two  women,  who  had  risen 
while  the  village  was  still  slumbering,  were  walk- 
ing along  the  road  which  skirted  the  forest  to 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  291 

the  east,  making  slight  detours  wherever  it  en- 
countered too  steep  a  hill,  then  resuming  its 
direct  course  like  a  compass  that  has  been  shaken. 
They  were  saying  to  each  other:  "Which  of  us 
shall  speak?  We  are  equally  unknown  to  him, 
you  and  I.  And  which  would  be  the  better  plan, 
to  enquire  for  him  first  from  the  people  at  the 
farm,  or  to  take  him  by  surprise  at  his  work?" 

"  If  only  his  father  has  not  hed  to  us?"  exclaimed 
Phrosine. 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  Davidee  answered. 

"You  do  not  know  all  his  wickedness,  any  more 
than  you  know  mine." 

"Why  do  you  speak  Hke  that?" 

"Oh,  my  poor  girl!  There  are  bad  people 
enough  in  this  world,  he  and  I  among  them.  They 
called  me  the  'she-wolf  and  they  were  right." 

"The  sun  is  rising,"  said  Davidee,  "it  is  already 
tingeing  the  tops  of  the  poplars.  The  working  day 
is  beginning;  shall  we  turn  here?" 

"Yes;  the  woman  at  the  inn  said:  *When 
you  see  great  meadows  with  tall  trees  on  them, 
leave  the  high-road  and  follow  a  cart  track  lead- 
ing up  to  the  pond  of  La  Planche.'" 

They  followed  the  road  along  which  the  win- 
ter's cart-ruts  had  hardened,  and  the  seed,  which 
had  fallen  into  them,  had  sprung  up  here  and 
there  in  grain  of  many  sorts.  The  fields  had 
grown  barer,  dropping  on  the  left-hand  into  a 
narrow  valley,  enclosed  between  two  spurs  of 
the  forest.  They  were  mostly  stubble  fields  of 
wheat  or  oats,  but  here  and  there  was  one  whose 
crop  was  not  yet  garnered,  which  made  a  ruddy 


292  DAVl  DEE   BIRO T 

spot  on  the  paler  slopes.  In  spite  of  the  early 
hour,  waves  of  heat  were  beginning  to  quiver 
along  the  valley  and  the  air  was  filled  with  an 
odour  of  fresh  straw  and  ripe  plums.  When 
Phrosine  and  Da\ddee  had  followed  the  cart  track 
for  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  they  discovered  that 
a  causeway,  overgrown  with  bushes,  intersected 
the  road,  and  that  beyond  it  was  a,  pond  fringed 
with  reeds,  and  above  the  pond,  at  a  height 
where  the  winter  floods  could  not  reach  them, 
rose  the  buildings  belonging  to  a  great  farm — 
dwelling-house,  stables,  barns,  and  sheepfolds — 
surrounding  a  hollow  square. 

"This  must  be  La  Planche,"  said  Davidee. 

And  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  she  looked 
aromid  for  living  beings,  men  or  animals,  amid 
this  silent  scene.  Phrosine,  standing  mute  and 
downcast,  apparently  lost  in  memories  of  the 
preceding  day  and  of  a  remoter  past,  and  dread- 
ing the  thought  of  how  the  next  few  moments 
might  affect  her  whole  future,  left  all  to  her  com- 
panion. 

"I  see  far-off  on  the  plain,"  said  Davidee,  "on 
the  shady  edge  of  the  forest,  a  flock  of  sheep  with 
a  shepherd  leading  them.  And  across  the  pond, 
half-way  up  the  slope,  I  can  see  two  reapers. 
To  which  shall  we  go  first?" 

"To  the  nearest,"  repHed  Phrosine. 

They  accordingly  drew  nearer,  crossing  the 
causewaj^  and  standing  motionless  beside  the 
wheat-field  where  the  crop  was  half  cut  and 
half  standing.  The  reaper  who  approached  them 
first,  his  body  swaying  with  the  motion  of  his 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  293 

scythe,  clad  only  in  a  half  unbuttoned  shirt,  and 
trousers  supported  by  cords  over  his  shoulders, 
was  a  very  young  fellow,  strong  and  rough,  as 
appeared  in  the  vigour  of  his  movements,  who 
did  not  relax  his  acti\dty  on  catching  sight  of  the 
two  strangers  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  field. 
Were  they  pleasure  seekers,  or  women  from  the 
nearest  town,  stopping  to  ask  the  way  to  the 
fountain  or  the  village,  or  to  enquire  at  what  house 
in  the  neighbourhood  they  could  buy  fresh  milk? 
He  had  seen  many  of  their  kind,  here  and  there, 
wherever  he  chanced  to  be  working.  His  con- 
sciousness of  masculine  superiority  and  his  natu- 
ral shyness  combined  to  make  him  01  at  ease 
in  such  encounters.  Having  seen  that  these  were 
women,  he  immediately  pulled  his  hat  down  over 
his  eyes,  so  that  his  face  was  hardly  visible. 
He  drew  himself  up  at  the  end  of  the  row  of 
sheaves,  seized  the  handle  of  his  sc}i}he  close  to 
the  blade,  and  with  a  rapid  motion  struck  it  in 
the  ground,  so  that  the  steel  rang  out  as  he  called 
to  them: 

"What  are  you  staring  at  me  for?  I  am  at 
work,  is  there  anything  surprising  about  that?" 

"His  look  is  hard  and  his  voice  deceitful.  He 
is  like  his  father!  It  is  Maurice!  I  am  sure  of 
it,"  Phrosine  said  to  herself,  as  she  stood  directly 
facing  the  reaper.  She  made  no  attempt  to 
attract  him,  she  forgot  all  the  words  she  had  pre- 
pared to  say  when  looking  forward  to  this  pos- 
sible encounter,  but  without  a  movement,  with 
no  sign  of  life  except  her  tortured  gaze,  she  studied 
every  feature  in  the  face  of  the  child,  grown  to 


294  DAVIDEEBIROT 

manhood;  the  forehead,  the  restless  eyebrows, 
the  close  cropped  hair  forming  a  point  above  the 
nose,  the  lips  without  a  curve,  strained  tight  even 
in  repose,  and  those  eyes — above  all — ^gleaming 
blue  beneath  the  swollen,  reddened  Hds,  dissatis- 
fied eyes  always  seeking  to  bathe  in  some  fresh 
source  of  light  and  passion.  The  young  man 
now  turned  toward  Davidee,  and  seeming  to  find 
her  appearance  pleasing,  asked  with  a  shrug: 

"How  does  she  know  my  name?" 

"How  do  I  know  j^our  name?"  cried  Phrosine. 

"Yes,  who  told  it  to  you?" 

"I  gave  it  to  you;  I  am  your  mother!" 

The  reaper  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  again, 
with  a  look  of  disdain  for  this  pair  of  advent- 
uresses, who  were  making  him  waste  his  time. 

"I  don't  know  what  that  is;  I  never  had  a 
mother." 

And  he  turned  away,  lowering  his  scythe  and 
preparing  to  get  to  work  again.  His  companion 
was  not  far  off,  and  thej^  could  hear  the  swish 
of  the  falling  ears  as  he  drew  near. 

"Come,  you  women,  move  along!  I  have  no 
time  to  spend  listening  to  you." 

But  the  mother  had  already  stepped  in  amid 
the  wheat  he  was  about  to  reap.  Her  eyes 
were  wet  with  tears,  her  hands  clasped  in  appeal, 
as  she  approached  her  child  without  venturing  to 
touch  him. 

"I  am  your  true  mother,  who  has  come  all  the 
way  from  Ardesie  to  find  you !  Your  father  must 
have  spoken  to  you  of  Ardesie,  where  I  live!" 

"No." 


DAVIDEEBIROT  295 

"Never?  Well,  it  was  he,  all  the  same,  who 
told  me  where  you  were  at  work,  Maurice.  I  had 
a  hard  enough  time  finding  you.  I  am  all  alone 
now;  do  not  send  me  away;  do  not  be  as  hard 
to  me  as  others  have  been.  I  want  you  to  know 
me  at  least,  and  to  talk  a  little  with  me." 

Another  voice,  that  of  Da\ddee,  who  was  stand- 
ing a  httle  further  off,  now  joined  with  hers. 

"It  is  quite  true,  all  she  is  telling  you;  you 
may  believe  her." 

But  Maurice  Le  Floch,  fearful  of  ridicule,  know- 
ing that  he  was  observed  by  the  farmer's  boy, 
who  had  looked  up  from  his  reaping  and  could 
hear  all  that  was  said,  merely  repeated : 

"Come!  step  out  of  the  wheat!  If  you,  too, 
want  me  to  give  you  aU  the  money  I  earn,  I  warn 
3^ou  that  the  other  didn't  succeed." 

"I  don't  want  any  of  your  money.  I  want 
you  to  know  me;  and  when  we  know  each  other, 
I  want  you  to  come  and  hve  with  me,  if  you  will. 
I  cannot  force  you  to  come,  but  I  want  you  to 
love  me." 

Having  said  this,  she  drew  back,  for  he  had  bent 
forward,  resting  his  hands  on  the  two  handles 
of  his  scjrthe,  and  was  sajdng: 

"Come  to  La  Blanche  after  the  nooning.  You 
can  talk  to  Master  Emoux,  who  is  my  employer." 
Then  with  a  half-circular  sweep  of  his  blade,  he 
cut  down  a  swath  of  ripe  wheat,  and  burying 
himself  in  the  crop,  with  his  head  scarcely  rising 
above  the  sheaves,  he  vanished  more  rapidly 
than  he  had  appeared,  leaving  the  two  women  to 
go  their  way.    But  he  could  still  hear  Bhrosine 


29G  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

crying,  and  being  young,  his  heart  was  somewhat 
stirred. 

"I  will  go  with  you  as  far  as  Ernoux's  farm," 
said  Davidee,  who  had  been  trjdng  to  comfort 
Phrosine,  "then  I  must  be  on  my  way  back  to 
Blandes,  or  they  will  be  growing  anxious  about  me." 

She  was  happy,  but  not  with  that  complete 
happiness  which  she  had  hoped  for.  She  would 
have  been  glad  if  Phrosine  had  said:  "I  will 
not  leave  him.  It  may  be,  he,  too,  will  try  to  es- 
cape from  me,  but  I  shall  win  him  over,  you  will 
see!  He  does  not  know  what  it  is  to  have  a 
mother.  Oh,  I  will  never  touch  his  money!  I 
am  still  young,  in  spite  of  what  Le  Floch  said; 
I  can  work;  I  shall  bring  him  back  with  me." 
But  Phrosine  was  silent,  disappointed  at  having 
found  the  son  so  like  the  father;  and  Davidee 
wondered  within  herself  as  she  walked  along 
beside  her:  "Would  she  have  come  if  she  had 
known  her  son?" 

The  summer  breeze  blew  through  the  forest, 
over  the  harvest-fields,  and  the  pond  where  the 
broken  stalks  of  wheat  were  dipping  their  heads 
in  the  water.  It  was  past  two  o'clock  when  the 
two  travellers,  after  breakfasting  in  the  village, 
presented  themselves  at  the  farm  of  La  Planche. 
Emoux,  the  farmer,  who  was  expecting  them, 
received  them  civilly,  and  in  order  to  do  them  the 
greater  honour,  showed  them  into  the  best  room, 
where  the  highly  polished  wood  of  three  wardrobes, 
a  chest  of  drawers,  and  a  carved  bedstead,  gleamed 
in  the  midst  of  a  tranquillity  which  was  seldom 
violated. 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  297 

He  was  a  short,  stout  man,  whose  shaven  face 
resembled  that  of  a  pettifogging  lawyer.  He 
had  just  come  from  the  barn,  where  he  had  been 
sleeping  with  all  his  family  when  the  watch-dog's 
bark  had  roused  him;  he  even  had  a  few  blades 
of  straw  left  sticking  in  his  hair.  He  listened 
with  a  judicial  air  to  Davidee's  narrative,  ap- 
pearing to  attach  especial  significance  to  the 
paper  signed  by  Le  Floch,  and  never  taking  his 
eyes  off  Phrosine,  while  her  companion  was  speak- 
ing. Then  he  called  Maurice  and  made  him 
sit  down  opposite  the  window,  facing  the  hght. 

"Maurice,"  he  said,  "I  believe  that  she  is  your 
real  mother." 

"That  may  be." 

"She  has  a  paper  saying  so;  and  then  there  is 
the  resemblance  between  you,  which  no  one  can 
deny,  though  it  would  be  hard  to  say  where  it 
Ues.  It's  not  the  eyes,  it's  not  the  forehead,  it's 
not  the  nose." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  to  that!"  repHed  the 
lad,  "but  what  does  she  want  of  me?  I  am  well- 
off  here,  but  as  soon  as  my  father  found  me  I  was 
obliged  to  give  him  all  my  money.  Now  that 
my  mother  has  found  me,  I  am  resolved  to  give 
her  nothing.    That's  what  I  say,  nothing." 

"I  approve  of  that,  my  boy,  but  all  the  same 
if  she  is  your  mother,  she  has  the  rights  of  a 
mother.  She  can  cany  you  away  into  her  own 
country." 

"Oh!    If  that  is  all  there  is  to  fear!" 

"But  later  on,  when  you  have  finished  your 
time  with  me,  you  might  go  with  her!    Mean- 


298  DAVIDEEBIROT 

while  I  have  hired  you,  you  are  satisfied  with 
me  and  I  with  you;  there's  no  reason  why  you 
should  leave  at  present." 

"Moreover,  how  do  I  know  that  at  her  house 
I  should  have  my  own  room?" 

Phrosine  was  not  greatly  surprised  at  this  bar- 
gaining. Al\  her  life  she  had  been  governed 
and  oppressed  by  the  selfishness  of  men.  First 
of  her  father,  then  of  her  husband,  then  of  her 
lovers  and  even  her  neighbours,  who  had  made 
free  use  of  her  hands  at  the  tubs;  and  yet  the 
mother  had  not  thought  that  her  first  interview 
with  her  new  found  son  would  be  like  this.  Cer- 
tainly she  had  reckoned  that  her  child  would  help 
her  to  earn  a  living,  but  above  all,  she  had  re- 
joiced through  her  maternal  tenderness,  bereft 
as  she  w^as  of  her  dead  child;  and  for  once  the 
disappointment  was  too  much  for  this  fiery  na- 
ture, which  injustice  and  suffering  revolted,  but 
could  not  crush. 

Bending  toward  her  son,  Phrosine  now  saw 
only  him ;  she  had  but  one  thought,  and  her  child 
did  not  understand:  "When  will  he  throw  him- 
self into  my  arms,  my  first-bom,  for  w^hom  I  have 
suffered?  He,  the  only  one  left  me  now;  he 
whom  I  have  sought  for,  amid  distress  which  no 
one  knows;  he  whose  kisses  I  have  missed  for  a 
dozen  years?  Oh,  Maurice!  Maurice!  To-mor- 
row I  will  be  your  servant  and  will  wash  your 
clothes;  to-morrow  you  may  reproach  me  if  the 
soup  is  too  thin,  or  the  wind  whistles  under  my 
door;  to-morrow  you  may  insist  on  my  giving 
you  all  the  wages  earned  by  your  aging  mother  to 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  299 

whom  you  will  give  nothing;  but  to-day  only 
embrace  me!"  He  remained  seated  stolidly  in 
his  chair,  with  a  look  of  suspicion  on  his  face,  his 
glance  constantly  seeking  Farmer  Emoux,  whom 
he  knew  to  be  a  shrewd  man  and  hard  to  de- 
ceive. One  would  have  thought  that  he  was 
discussing  the  terms  of  a  contract  which  had 
been  proposed  to  him,  and  that  there  was  only 
one  question  to  examine  and  decide:  "Would 
the  new  place  be  worth  the  old  one?" 

It  was  Da\ddee  who  replied  to  him,  as  his 
mother  was  silent. 

"Will  there  be  room  also  for  my  bicycle?"  he 
asked. 

"The  house  is  large  enough,"  answered  Davi- 
dee,  who  was  thinking  of  the  house  on  the  Plains. 
"The  bicycle  can  easily  be  sheltered  there." 

"And  is  the  land  over  that  way  harder  to  work 
in  than  here?  The  woman  says  nothing,"  and 
he  pointed  to  his  mother.  "She  cannot  guar- 
antee that  I  shall  have  well-paid  work,  at  the 
same  price  as  with  Master  Emoux.  Does  one  have 
Sunday  free,  at  least,  on  those  farms?  Do  they 
give  meat  and  wine  when  the  work  is  hardest?" 

"The  labourers  there  look  contented,"  said 
Davidee;  "they  do  not  complain  more  than 
elsewhere." 

It  was  the  farmer  of  La  Planche  who  first  under- 
stood the  mother's  silence.  He  was  in  haste  to 
resume  his  work,  having  caught  sight,  through 
the  window,  of  a  wagon  going  out  empty  to  the 
fields  beside  the  pond,  where  the  harvest  was  not 
yet  gathered. 


300  DAVIDEEBIROT 

"Come  along,"  he  said.  "You  shall  go  when 
autumn  comes.  Embrace  5^our  mother  there! 
You  can  see  well  enough  that  that's  all  she's  wait- 
ing for." 

The  youth  hesitated  a  little,  Phrosine  had 
risen,  he  rose  too.  Suddenly  he  felt  himself 
enveloped  in  an  ardent  love  such  as  he  ignored 
as  yet;  he  was  pressed  to  this  heart  which  was 
beating  for  him,  and  w^ords  he  had  never  before 
heard  reached  the  ears  of  the  friendless  waif. 

"My  Maurice!  My  dear  one!  Embrace  me 
again!  Tell  me  that  you  are  going  to  love  me!'^ 
When  he  had  escaped  from  the  maternal  arms, 
Maurice  Le  Floch  only  said:  "It  changes  me  to 
have  a  mother!  I  shall  get  used  to  it,  perhaps, 
but  I  shall  not  give  her  my  money!" 

Picking  up  his  straw  hat,  which  he  had  thrown 
on  the  floor,  he  shook  himself  like  a  dog  that 
has  been  patted,  and  remarked  aside  to  Farmer 
Emoux:  "I  must  know,  all  the  same,  whether 
the  pay  is  good  over  yonder;  without  that — " 
And  Phrosine  heard  him. 

Late  that  same  evening,  Phrosine  and  Davi- 
d^e  returned  to  the  village  which  they  had  left, 
in  the  morning.  Phrosine  was  no  longer  the 
mother  ennobled  by  the  hope  of  Tsinning  back 
her  son.  She  had  judged  her  child,  and  found 
him  too  much  like  his  father.  Her  future  would 
never  be  brightened  by  him  nor  her  daily  task 
lightened.  All  that  she  had  expended  of  fatigue 
and  time,  money  and  ingenuity  and  baffled 
hopes,  had  only  serv^ed  to  discover  this  calculat- 
ing being,  through  whom  she  would  have  to  suf- 


DAVIDEEBIROT  301 

fer  still  more.  She  would  take  him  away  with 
her!  Oh,  that  was  certain,  at  whatever  cost! 
That  was  her  victory  over  her  husband.  But 
this  victory  promised  her  no  joy,  gave  her  no 
strength. 

Then,  out  of  her  evil  past,  old  sins  awakened, 
and  she  listened  to  their  voice.  David^e  heard 
her  laugh,  but  did  not  understand.  Phrosine 
was  thinking  of  festivals  and  betrayals,  and  of 
the  snares  she  would  lay,  and  what  she  could 
do  to  attract  Maieul;  her  heart  was  irritated, 
savage  and  wild  as  a  wasp  on  the  brim  of  a  wine- 
vat.  As  she  stalked  along,  with  her  bold  free 
stride,  chewing  a  spray  of  mint  which  she  had 
gathered  beside  the  road,  the  penetrating  odour 
floated  in  the  air  behind  her.  The  village  had 
come  in  sight,  in  midst  of  the  plain,  the  hour  of 
parting  was  near  and  Phrosine  decided  to  speak; 
she  said  without  looking  at  Davidee: 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind!  I  shall  settle 
down  near  La  Planche  until  November;  I  do 
not  choose  that  Maurice  should  stay  with  his 
father.  He  may  help  me  or  he  may  not;  I  will 
not  leave  him  to  Le  Floch.  We  shall  go  away 
from  here  together,  and  afterward — we  shall  see!" 

She  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  suddenly 
changing  her  tone,  which  now  became  as  ag- 
gressive as  in  the  worst  days  of  the  past: 

"Have  you  any  news  from  the  slate-cutter  of 
La  Foret?" 

She  did  not  name  Maieul. 

"No." 

"But  I  have,  though!" 


302  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

"From  himself?"  asked  Davidee  quickly. 

"  No,  but  if  I  had  chosen  to  hear  directly  from 
himself  I  could  have  done  so.  It  appears  that  he 
is  successful." 

"So  much  the  better!" 

"There's  a  rumour  that  you  are  going  to  marry 
him."  Davidee  drew  away  from  the  woman  walk- 
ing beside  her  along  the  highway. 

"Why  do  you  speak  to  me  of  him,  and  spite- 
fully, as  you  are  doing?" 

" I  told  you  that  I  was  bad.    Look  out  for  me!" 

"Phrosine,  what  I  may  wish  to  do  some  day  I 
do  not  know,  and  it  concerns  no  one  but  myself." 

"I  beg  pardon!  It  concerns  me  in  the  first 
place,  for  I  have  rights  over  him." 

"But  he  left  you!" 

"And  for  whose  sake?  Do  you  think  such 
things  can  be  forgiven?" 

"For  the  sake  of  the  child  whom  you  were 
killing,  between  you." 

Phrosine  stopped,  and  throwing  away  the 
spray  of  mint,  she  turned  upon  Da^ddee: 

"I  can  no  longer  live!  My  husband  has  left 
me  for  another,  my  son  will  not  share  his  daily 
bread  with  me.  Did  he  not  say  so  often  enough? 
Did  you  not  hear  him?  Now  you  want  to  take 
away  my  lover!" 

"Phrosine!" 

"I  let  him  go,  but  I  did  not  give  him  up  to 
you  J' 

Davidee 's  voice  rising,  clear  and  ardent  upon 
the  air,  rephed:  "Well,  then,  try  to  take  him 
back  now  that  he  loves  me!" 


DAVIDEEBIROT  303 

Their  words  seemed  to  gallop,  like  a  pack  of 
hounds,  across  the  plain.  The  two  women  heard 
them  dying  away  in  the  distance  as  they  parted. 

Phrosine  returned  to  the  \dllage,  to  which  the 
farm  of  La  Planche  belonged,  and  Davidee  went 
on  alone  to  the  wood-cutter's  inn.  She  was  not 
greatly  troubled,  though  Phrosine's  threat  had 
made  her  speak  at  last  and  utter  words  she  did 
not  know  she  had  even  thought. 

She  had  owned  her  love,  and  although  it  was 
not  to  Maieul,  she  felt  herself  already  a  be- 
trothed, who  has  said,  "I  love  you,  I  am  yours," 
and  who  looks  with  security  and  wonder  at  the 
brightness  which  that  new  hght  casts  over  a 
dark  and  troubled  sea.  The  beam  does  not 
destroy  the  unknown,  but  shines  through  it. 
She  had  set  out  on  a  rapid  walk  on  lea\dng  Phro- 
sine; as  she  approached  the  houses  she  saw,  at 
the  end  of  a  street,  one  lighted  window,  and  in- 
stantly the  vast  night  was  without  ambush  and 
without  fears.  This  was  the  only  sign  of  life 
visible;  the  girl  now  advanced  more  slow^ly;  not 
a  sound  was  floating  through  the  warm  air  which 
gently  stirred  the  leaves  and  shook  the  last  sheaves 
in  the  wheat-fields.  The  light  of  the  stars  shed 
a  peaceful  gleam  over  the  tiled  roofs,  while  all 
beneath  was  in  shadow. 

"I  was  obliged  to  speak!  By  loving  him  I 
defend  him  against  her,  against  himself.  Is  not 
that  the  ambition  I  have  always  had?  To  raise, 
to  draw  souls  out  of  their  weight  of  misery.  I 
shall  have  won  him.  I  shall  ask  of  him  only 
good-will.    What  matters  it  if  he  is  poor  and 


304  DAVIDEEBIROT 

ignorant?  If  he  obeys  noble  counsels  he  is  noble. 
He  has  already  parted  from  this  woman.  To 
breathe  the  same  air  as  his  former  sin  must  be  a 
cause  of  weakness  to  him.  I  have  made  an 
avowal  which  is  starthng  even  to  myself,  but 
what  strength  wiU  be  needed  for  two!  Where 
shall  I  find  it?  I  feel  myself  so  ignorant  of  all 
that  which  I  love  best  and  which  attracts  me  most. 
M}^  secret  is  not  yet  his.  It  is  only  mine,  and 
that  of  the  enemy  to  whom  I  tried  to  be  kind. 
I  have  given  a  promise,  but  only  to  my  own  heart. 
I  came  to  save  a  woman  whom  her  maternal 
instinct  led  for  a  moment,  but  whom  it  no  longer 
upholds.  She  lacks  that  which  I  would  gladly 
have — the  knowledge  how  to  sacrifice  oneself. 
I'  have  gained  no  influence  over  her,  she  hates 
me!  And  yet  I  regret  nothing.  May  the  source 
whence  my  youth  drew  an  impulse  of  devotion 
to  others  open  anew!  May  I  see  my  road,  in 
order  to  lead  others!  May  my  love  reach  out, 
first  of  all,  toward  truth — even  afar  off — truth 
of  which  I  have  caught  a  ray,  like  that  which  my 
eyes  receive  from  the  stars!  May  I  not  fear  to 
see!  May  I  be  a  woman,  obscure  indeed,  but 
capable  of  good!"  Then  she  became  conscious 
that  she  had  prayed.  The  one  little  Hght  in  the 
\411age  had  gone  out,  and  she  was  obliged  to 
awaken  the  hostess  of  the  inn. 

Early  the  next  morning  Davidee  turned  her 
back  on  the  country  where  the  forest  of  Vou- 
vant  lay,  already  glowing  with  warmth  upon  the 
hills. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE  RETURN  TO  ARD^SIE. 

October,  the  golden  month,  was  reviving,  on 
the  mounds  of  Ardesie,  the  sprays  of  broom 
which  blossom  twice  a  year.  The  damp  morn- 
ings, the  mild,  bright  afternoons,  the  leaves  whose 
mission  was  no  longer  to  give  shade,  but  which 
now  helped  the  smi  and  turned  to  simbeams,  the 
fear  of  coming  winter  which  prowls  at  night 
and  flies  before  the  day,  the  desire  to  see  once 
more  the  old  friendly  faces,  the  custom  prevail- 
ing in  Ardesie  of  visiting  the  families  of  new 
pupils:  all  these  reasons,  together  with  her  mere 
delight  in  exercise,  moved  Davidee  to  take  long 
walks  on  her  free  days,  which  were  Thursdays 
and  Sundays.  On  her  return  from  the  vacation, 
she  had  received  a  letter  from  the  principal  in- 
spector. He  announced  first  that  he  had  been 
promoted  to  a  superior  position  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Paris,  a  position  which  was  at  once  a 
promise  and  a  reward.  Then,  ha\ang  spoken  of 
himself,  he  added:  "As  for  you.  Mademoiselle, 
you  have  no  idea  of  the  vigilant  and  sympa- 
thetic care  with  which  I  have  defended  your 
cause.  You  have  been,  I  will  not  say  merely 
threatened,  but  actually  the  object  of  certain 
suspicions  which  I  have  dispelled.    Nothing  will 

305 


306  DAVIDEE    BIROT 

survive,  I  am  persuaded,  of  these  suspicions,  which 
I  successfully  opposed,  if  you  will  consent  to 
exercise  extreme  prudence  in  the  manifestation 
of  sentiments  which  are  undoubtedly  permitted, 
but  which  should  not  be  shown  too  zealously. 
In  whatever  way  I  can  serve  you,  believe  me, 

Mademoiselle ' ' 

The  assistant,  after  reading  this  letter,  had 
smiled  and  exclaimed  aloud,  amid  the  flood  of 
afternoon  sunshme  pouring  into  her  chamber: 
"Thanks,  Papa  Birot!  it  was  you  who  gained  that 
cause!"  And  the  official  letter  would  soon  have 
been  forgotten,  if  other  letters  had  not  come  to 
recall  it  to  life.  These  last  were  not  written  by 
persons  of  importance,  but  by  young  school- 
teachers who  asked  for  counsel;  some  timidly, 
some  directly,  according  to  the  temperament, 
the  feelings,  or  the  age  of  the  writer.  The  first 
of  these  letters,  which  she  had  received  before  the 
vacation,  had  almost  irritated  Davidee,  but  these 
repeated  confidences  revealed  to  her  a  band  of 
sisters  whose  existence  she  had  not  suspected. 
She  felt,  in  consequence,  less  solitary  in  spirit, 
and  a  deep  sympathy  was  called  forth  in  her  for 
these  unknown  friends,  whose  faces  she  would 
probably  never  see.  She  miderstood  the  noble 
suffering  which  a  select  class  of  the  daughters  of 
the  people  in  France  was  sharing  with  her.  How 
did  these  letters  chance  to  be  addressed  to  her, 
and  why  had  these  strangers  taken  her  into  their 
confidence?  Who  had  made  it  known  that,  among 
the  blue  stones  of  Ardesie,  there  dwelt  an  assistant 
teacher  who  was  solicitous  for  the  souls  of  her 


DAVIDEEBIROT  307 

little  charges;  who  had  one  day  dared  to  cany  a 
prayer-book  under  her  arm,  without  asking  par- 
don for  the  offence?  Were  they  enemies  who 
were  jealous  of  her,  or  secret  admirers,  or  babbling 
employes?  Who  could  say?  Wherever  a  wire  is 
stretched  above  the  earth,  the  swallows  are  sure 
to  Hght  upon  it. 
These  were  some  of  the  letters: 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  am  a  young  girl  of  your  own 
age,  weak  and  hesitating  by  nature.  I  envy  you, 
for  I  know  that  you  have  had  the  courage  to  own 
yourself  a  Christian.  I  have  more  than  once 
failed  to  do  so,  and  yet  I  have  greater  faith  than 
the  people  among  whom  I  hve.  I  have  been 
deterred  by  a  timidity  which  humiliates  me.  I 
desire  to  be  more  useful,  more  truly  an  educator 
than  I  am  now.  I  suffer  at  the  thought  of  giv- 
ing of  myself  only  that  which  is  least  good,  least 
wholesome,  least  true.  Advise  me.  Mademoiselle; 
speak  to  me,  point  out  to  me  the  books  which  I 
should  read  and  which  would  confirm  me,  not 
only  in  my  faith — ^which  is  imperfect  as  yet — but 
in  my  duty  as  a  teacher,  which  I  would  not  have 
out  of  harmony  with  my  hfe,  as  I  feel  that  it  has 
been  hitherto.  To  see  all  the  evil  about  one 
without  daiing  to  say  where  good  is  to  be  found, 
or  to  utter  mere  formulas  of  well-doing  which 
touch  only  the  memory — do  you  know  this 
trouble?  I  have  some  friends — only  a  few — 
whom  I  know  or  guess  to  be  like  myseff.  Will 
you  answer  me?    I  venture  to  hope  so." 


308  DAVIDEEBIROT 

"I  live  very  far  from  you,  Mademoiselle;  I 
know  nothing  of  you,  save  through  one  of  your 
friends,  Mile.  S.,  who  was  your  fellow  pupil  at 
the  normal  school,  but  that  is  enough  to  inspire 
me  with  confidence  in  your  kindness  and  dis- 
cretion. We  have  held,  during  these  last  days, 
many  eager  discussions  in  this  large  city  school, 
where  I  am  an  assistant.  I  am  argumentative  by 
nature;  I  maintain  my  opinions  with  an  ardour 
which  I  try  to  express  courteously,  but  I  often  ex- 
perience, afterward,  the  need  of  fortifying  myself  in 
a  position  which  I  beHeve  to  be  just.  We  were 
talking  of  morality,  the  directress  and  I,  her  hus- 
band and  the  other  assistants.  I  maintained,  that 
after  having  by  degrees  eliminated  from  educa- 
tion the  fundamental  dogmas  of  Christianity,  such 
as  the  idea  of  personal  immortality,  the  idea 
of  God,  and  consequently  the  entire  Christian 
system  of  morality,  which  cannot  be  separated 
from  these  beliefs,  we  had  sought  to  create  or 
disinter  other  moral  systems.  Many  men  of 
talent  and  of  passionate  ardour  have  engaged 
in  this  work,  and  these  attempts  have  been  many. 
My  contradictors  recognized  that  these  chance 
systems  of  morality  have  not  held  good,  but  we 
were  divided  on  this  point:  I  maintained  that 
the  search  had  been  abandoned;  that  we  had  re- 
nounced the  attempt  to  found  a  moral  system. 
I  said  that  this  was  a  deplorable  treason  toward 
parents  and  children  alike,  and  that  our  ambition, 
which  is  to  prepare  ourselves  for  life,  could  no 
longer  sustain  us,  as  it  had  once  done;  that  this, 
the  first  spring  of  action  within  us,  was  hopelessly 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  309 

warped;  but  to  this  they  would  not  agree.    Tell 
me  your  opinion." 


"Mademoiselle,  I  have  been  reading  some  irre- 
ligious books  which  have  troubled  me  greatly; 
one  especially,  well-written,  but  so  cruel  and  so 
hopeless!  I  laid  it  aside  when  I  had  read  it  half 
through,  because  I  said  to  myself  that  I  had  not 
sufficient  knowledge  to  criticise  or  to  confirm 
what  I  was  reading;  but  a  certain  disquietude 
has  remained  within  me.  I  was  attracted  for 
the  moment  by  the  idea  of  a  religion  without 
dogmas,  consisting  only  in  an  inner  aspiration 
of  our  souls  toward  God;  but  on  reflection,  I  rea- 
hzed  that  this  would  be  mere  anarchy:  the  oppo- 
site extreme  to  the  ideals  of  a  religious  society 
and  a  common  morality,  and  yet  my  mind,  in  its 
weakness,  returns  to  this  argument  which  I  feel 
that  I  have  refuted.  Have  you  experienced  this 
contention  within  ourselves,  which  is  so  hard  and 
wearying,  especially  when  we  have  no  one  in 
whom  to  confide?  Among  my  companions  at 
the  normal  school,  there  are  surely  some  who  are 
passing  through  the  same  ciisis  as  I,  and  who  no 
more  dare  to  avow  it  than  I  do.  There  are  others 
who  have  need  of  affection,  to  whom  I  would 
gladly  hold  out  my  hand,  but  our  days  pass  by 
too  rapidly,  often  full  of  interest,  though  many  of 
these  interests  are  merely  outward  and  superficial; 
and  it  is  only  on  returning  to  my  evening  soli- 
tude that  I  feel  conscious  how  little  light  my  soul 
has  shed  on  any  other  soul,  and  how  Kttle  it  has 


310  DAVIDfiE   BIROT 

received  from  others.  Help  me,  will  you  not? 
The  courage  of  one  often  avails  to  sustain  many. 
I  come  to  you  seeking  the  strength  to  remain 
m3''self;  and  to  rise  to  something  better." 


Mile.  Birot  also  received  several  visits  at  this 
time.  On  the  day  before  the  reopening  of  school, 
there  had  even  appeared  a  young  man,  an  in- 
structor from  a  neighbouring  town. 

"Well,  my  dear!"  Mile.  Desforges  had  ex- 
claimed, "you  are  indeed  becoming  celebrated; 
what  with  piles  of  letters  and  visits  every  day! 
I  do  not  en^^  you,  and  I  doubt  very  much  whether 
you  will  find  all  this  profitable  for  your  career. 
There  is  a  young  man  in  the  court-yard  asking 
for  you.     Do  you  wish  me  to  send  him  away?" 

"No,  I  will  go  down  and  see  him." 

"But  you  have  not  unpacked  your  valise  yet." 

"I  will  do  that  when  I  come  back,"  Da  video 
replied. 

She  found  her  visitor  to  be  a  veiy  young  man 
^ith  ruddy  cheeks  and  curhng  hair,  carefully 
dressed,  and  of  studied  speech,  who  addressed  her, 
at  first,  merely  as  a  comrade,  and  as  if  he  had  no 
reason  for  coming  to  see  her  beyond  the  attrac- 
tion felt  by  a  youth  for  a  pretty,  intelHgent  girl; 
but  before  lea\dng  he  held  out  his  hand,  and 
speaking  more  seriously,  said: 

"We  are  not  too  numerous,  those  who  think 
as  we  do;  we  ought  to  know  each  other,  and,  be- 
sides, courage  such  as  yours  is  always  good  to  see!" 

In  her  diary  Davidee  wrote:    "What  is  the 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  311 

matter  with  them  all?  What  have  I  done  that 
is  so  wonderful?  Why  do  they  come  to  me? 
Alas,  if  they  knew  the  whole  truth,  they  would 
see  that  I  am  far  from  being  the  Christian  they 
imagine  me  to  be.  They  force  me  to  interest 
myself  in  these  religious  problems,  they  leave  me 
no  peace;  they  are  helping  on  my  spiritual  prog- 
ress far  more  than  I  am  counselling  them.  My 
dear  sisters!  you  of  the  tender,  troubled  souls! 
how  I  wish  that  I  could  visit  you  in  your  school- 
rooms, in  your  chambers:  those  plain  tidy  cells 
where  you  find  comfort  in  the  solitude  which  is 
so  welcome  to  us  all  at  first!  You  weep  there 
sometimes,  I  know,  for  you  have  to  bear  ridicule, 
insult,  and  injustice,  as  well  as  the  silence  of  com- 
panions whom  you  care  for,  and  the  cold  aloofness 
of  the  self-satisfied  and  ignorant.  I  am  only  one 
of  your  number,  and  not  the  one  who  has  suf- 
fered most.  I  merely  look  forward  and  divine,  I 
struggle  and  aspire,  and  accept  each  day's  les- 
son as  it  comes.  I  have  been  where  God  is  not, 
and  the  vision  was  a  terrible  one.  You  have 
been  sent  to  me,  so  that  I  might  know  that  beauti- 
ful spirit  of  tenderness  which  concerns  itself  for 
the  future  of  ever}^  stranger  child,  asking  inces- 
santly: 'Shall  I  have  given  strength  to  these 
little  ones?  Will  the  mothers  be  true  mothers? 
The  wives,  true  wdves?  Can  I  arm  them  with 
virtue?  Is  my  own  sufficient — uncertain  and  trem- 
bling as  it  is — based  only  on  instinct  and  good 
examples?'  I,  too,  have  always  before  me  the 
unknown  futures  which  I  am  preparing;  I  feel 
that  for  these  children,  and  for  myself,  I  must 


312  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

develop  an  inward  life  through  which  we  all  can 
live.  My  sisters!  as  yet  I  have  only  prayed 
timidly,  and  in  moments  of  anxiety  and  emotion, 
to  Him  who  can  give  or  increase  this  grace.  And 
you  do  not  know  this!  How  parched  and  dry 
the  spiritual  world  must  be,  if  a  drop  of  water 
such  as  I  have  to  give,  preserved  I  know  not 
how,  can  attract  these  thirsting  souls  and  seem 
to  them  a  spring!" 

Davidee  paid  many  visits,  at  this  time,  to  the 
parents  of  her  new  pupils.  All  received  her 
kindly,  and  she  once  more  repaid  the  confidence 
these  mothers  reposed  in  her  and  the  facile  ten- 
derness of  the  children  with  the  same  interest 
and  care  she  had  shown  to  her  last  year's''scholars. 
Several  women,  whom  she  had  not  been  to  see, 
called  to  her  from  their  door-ways:  "Well,  Mad- 
emoiselle!   You  are  too  proud  then,  to  step  in?" 

She  was  not  proud,  poor  Da\ddee!  but  she  was 
a  Uttle  sad  in  these  days,  because  Maieul  had  not 
written  to  her,  and  had  never  come  back. 

She  was  somewhat  surprised,  when  on  a  late 
October  afternoon — it  had  been  rainy  all  the 
day  before,  and  the  crows  were  flying  over  the 
leafless  hedges — little  Jeannie  Fete-Dieu,  who  was 
watching  for  her  outside  of  one  of  the  neigh- 
bour's doors,  greeted  her  with  the  words:  " Grand- 
mamma sends  you  her  love.  Mademoiselle.  It 
seems  she  has  news  for  you,  if  you  can  only  find 
time  to  come  in  and  see  us." 

What  news?  The  answer  in  her  own  mind 
was  immediate.  It  must  be  a  message  from 
Maieul  which  the  old  woman  had  to  give  her. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  313 

Davidee  had  only  to  follow  the  narrow  path 
through  the  broom,  over  the  mound  of  La  Gra- 
velle,  and  descend  into  the  hollow  where  the 
house  and  its  tiny  garden  lay  hidden. 

Lying  in  her  bed,  which  the  sun  could  only 
reach  for  one  short  half-hour  during  the  day, 
the  invahd  held  a  sprig  of  box  in  her  hand,  with 
which  she  was  trying  to  drive  away  the  last  flies 
of  the  season  which  were  still  tormenting  her. 
She  had  no  more  power  of  motion  than  usual, 
but  she  called  herself  better,  and  her  eyes  were 
ahght  with  a  passing  youthful  gleam. 

"Well,  here  is  a  term  that  opens  finely!"  she 
exclaimed. 

"Why  so.  Mere  Fete-Dieu?" 

"Because  they  are  all  welcoming  you  back  as 
if  you  were  the  month  of  May!  'Good-morning 
Mademoiselle  Davidee !  Do  come  in  and  see  us !' 
is^the  cry  in  all  the  villages." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"  Jeannie  has  ears  for  me  as  well  as  legs,  and  a 
heart  which  remembers  every  word  that  is  spoken 
of  you.  And  what  would  you  say.  Mademoiselle 
Davidee,  if  I  told  you  that  there  is  some  one  else 
who  is  longing  to  see  you?" 

The  young  girl  answered  sadly:  "I  should 
scarcely  believe  you." 

"But  if  he  had  sent  you  a  message  by  me?" 

"Give  it  then,  Mere  Fete-Dieu." 

"Hasn't  he  written  to  you  himself?" 

"No,  never  since  he  went  away." 

"He  is  afraid  to  write,  because  you  are  so 
learned." 


314  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

"Is  that  the  reason  why  he  has  never  been 
here  since  I  came  back  to  Ardesie  a  month  ago? 
La  Foret  is  not  far  off,  only  two  hours  from  here 
by  railway." 

The  invahd  slowly  stretched  out  her  hand  and 
touched  the  girl's  bare  arm  with  the  sprig  of  box, 
like  a  mother  who  is  plaj^ully  correcting  her  child. 

"You  have  too  little  faith  in  life,  my  dear." 

"It  is  because  I  know  it  too  well." 

"Not  all  of  it!  You  have  seen  only  its  worst 
side,  or  nearly  so.  There  is  a  remedy  for  us  and 
for  all  who  are  of  good-will.  There  is  succour  for 
us  all." 

"^\^lere,  Mere  Fete-Dieu?" 

"In  Paradise,  my  dear." 

"I  do  not  know  the  road." 

"It  is  easily  found,  child.  But  listen  to  some- 
thing else  I  have  to  tell  you.    I  have  seen  Maieul." 

"He  has  been  here  then,  and  has  not  tried  to 
see  me?" 

"You  were  away  on  your  vacation.  He  talked 
to  me  as  if  he  had  been  my  son.  Ah!  how  hand- 
some he  looked,  with  such  a  resolute  look  on  his 
face,  and  dressed  like  a  gentleman." 

"And  what  about  the  heart,  Mere  Fete-Dieu? 
I  care  little  for  the  coat!" 

"Wait  till  I  tell  you.  Maieul  has  worked  so 
well  over  there  that  he  has  been  promoted.  He 
has  been  a  foreman  for  the  past  week,  and  they 
say  that  he  may  be  paymaster  some  day.  That 
is  a  fine  place." 

"Undoubtedly,  but  how  about  the  heart?  Is 
that  cured  of  its  malady?" 


DAVIDfiEBIROT  315 

Little  Jeannie,  at  a  sign  from  her  grandmother, 
had  left  the  room,  and  her  shadow  could  be  seen, 
flitting  back  and  forth  across  the  garden-beds. 
Joy  had  vanished  from  the  old  face,  but  not  its 
look  of  calm,  nor  that  sort  of  security  which  be- 
longs to  the  aged  who  have  been  upright,  and  have 
won  the  victory  of  the  soul. 

"You  are  not  greatly  to  be  pitied,"  she  said. 
"There  is  only  a  Httle  weakness  left  and  some 
fear  of  himself." 

"No,  of  her!" 

"Well,  of  her,  if  you  will  have  it  so." 

Poor  Mere  Fete-Dieu  shook  her  head  on  her 
piled-up  pillows,  saying  to  herself:  "It  is  no  use 
trying  to  hide  anything  from  this  young  lady 
from  the  school." 

"I  am  sure  she  writes  to  him." 

"Yes,  my  dear,  she  does." 

"She  has  been  writing  to  him  since  August?" 

"Yes,  and  even  before  that;  she  has  tried  her 
best  to  win  him  back,  but  he  does  not  answer 
her.  He  is  counting  the  days  now,  and  if  he  does 
not  venture  to  come  back,  it  is  out  of  respect  and 
friendship  for  you." 

"He  pretends  that  it  is  so." 

"You  may  be  sure  of  it!  He  left  Ardesie  be- 
cause he  could  not  live  so  near  to  her  who  had 
been  the  cause  of  his  sin.  Here,  to  my  very  face, 
he  said:  'I  shall  not  return  until  the  day  when 
I  can  say:  I  will  live  in  Ardesie  and  I  will  no 
longer  meet  my  remorse  there!'" 

"Did  he  say  remorse?" 

"Yes,  my  pretty  one,  and  he  is  a  man  who  will 


316  DAVIDfiEBIROT 

not  lie.  If  he  comes  back,  he  will  not  go  away 
any  more.     You  can  trust  in  him." 

"As  much  as  one  can  in  a  man." 

"You  may  well  say:  a  man.  But  such  a  well- 
meaning  one!  Only  listen  again!  I  said  to  him, 
just  to  see:  'What  if  Mademoiselle  Davidee  were 
to  become  a  good  Christian,  Maieul?'" 

"It  is  quite  true,  Mere  Fete-Dieu!  It  is  that 
way  I  am  tending.    What  did  he  answer?" 

"He  said:  'That  doesn't  frighten  me!  If  I 
were  married  I  should  be  like  her.'" 

The  assistant  rose,  and  caressed  the  drooping 
hand,  wearily  holding  the  sprig  of  box,  and  the 
serious  face,  stamped  with  a  look  of  deep  compas- 
sion for  the  sorrows  of  youth. 

"Mere  Fete-Dieu,"  the  girl  said,  "I  shall  send 
no  answer  by  you.  I  shall  not  write  nor  let 
others  write  for  me;  I  shall  simply  wait.  I  cannot 
promise  what  my  answer  will  be  if  he  asks  me; 
it  may  be  that  I  am  destined  to  mount  the  steep 
path  alone.  I  wiU  not  take  a  step  toward  him, 
I  will  not  seek  him  if  he  turns  away  from  me." 

At  the  further  end  of  the  garden,  Jeannie, 
who  was  waiting  to  see  her  pass,  was  amazed  that 
her  teacher's  eyes  were  red,  since  grandmother 
had  been  talkmg  to  her  of  Maieul.  She  was 
busily  engaged  in  hammering  a  nail  with  the  heel 
of  her  sabot,  by  way  of  proving  that  she  had  not 
been  Hstening.  On  seeing  the  assistant,  she 
ceased  this  demonstration,  and  put  her  sabot  on 
again,  saying:  "Good-night,  my  poor  demoi- 
selle!" In  the  village  the  greetings  of  the  house- 
wives met  with  no  response,  beyond  a  wave  of 


DAVIDfiE   BIROT  317 

the  hand.  The  girl  was  in  haste  to  go  in-doors 
and  weep. 

She  wept  a  long  while.  How  helpless  she  was! 
To  whom  should  she  turn?  There  were  beings 
then,  insensible  to  every  proof  of  friendship,  hke 
this  Phrosine  and  her  husband,  incapable  of 
loyalty  or  justice;  and  other  beings  so  weak  that 
a  pure  love  alone  could  not  save  them,  that  res- 
cued once,  they  turned  back  to  evil  ways.  Vain 
hopes  of  the  summer,  useless  tenderness,  which 
had  thought  itself  so  strong!  How  hard  it  was 
to  live  amid  such  hearts,  and  try  to  make  them 
live!  Had  she  not  tried?  But  what  a  mockery! 
And  to-morrow,  next  year,  until  the  age  of  retire- 
ment came,  she  must  persevere  in  this  super- 
human effort,  cherish  these  illusions,  continue  to 
offer  this  hollow  show  to  fathers  and  mothers 
who  had  entrusted  their  children  to  her  care! 

Her  two  griefs  appeared  to  her  as  one;  to  be 
abandoned  and  to  spend  her  soul  without  re- 
ward! Not  to  be  happy  nor  to  be  able  to  make 
others  happy!  Davidee  opened  her  drawer  and 
reread  some  of  the  letters  which  her  unknown 
sisters  had  written  her;  everj^where  she  read  the 
same  words:  "You,  the  Christian!"  she  re- 
called Mere  Fete-Dieu's  saying:  "There  is  help 
in  Paradise!"  The  road  has  been  pointed  out 
to  me,  she  thought,  and  opening  her  prayer-book, 
she  took  from  it  a  little  picture  of  the  Crucified 
One  and  held  it  in  her  hand.  She  sought  for  a 
moment  the  place  to  lay  her  lips,  there  on  the 
wounded  heart,  then  she  said:  "Help  me!" 

That  same  evening,  with  the  chill  wind  blow- 


318  DAVIDEEBIROT 

ing  around  her,  she  went  out  again,  and  sought 
through  quiet  by-paths  the  house  on  the  Plains. 
It  was  deserted;  the  plum-trees  were  bare  of 
leaves,  but  the  pyramids  of  the  pear-trees,  in  the 
growing  darkness,  rose  here  and  there  like  red  and 
golden  flames. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE  PERMISSION. 

The  November  fogs,  chill,  heavy,  and  tenacious, 
were  dragging  down  to  earth  the  last  decaying 
leaves;  for  weeks  the  pear-trees  had  lost  their 
look  of  lighted  torches,  the  winds  were  walled  in 
all  day  by  heavy  banks  of  cloud,  and  the  smoke 
from  the  chimneys  curled  and  twisted  in  spirals 
beneath  them,  when  one  morning,  the  house  on 
the  Plains  flung  open  its  window  and  door,  look- 
ing out  upon  the  little  yard.  But  no  smoke  rose 
from  this  chimney,  and  amid  the  neighbouring 
cottages  this  one  alone  stood  silent. 

Phrosine  was  making  the  rounds  of  her  lower 
room,  where  the  white  mould  lay  like  patches  of 
soapsuds  upon  the  floor.  The  poor  forsaken 
cat  had  died,  its  mummified  body  lay  stretched 
on  the  ashes  of  the  hearth,  and  the  stench  of 
death  hung  about  the  walls  and  rafters. 

Phrosine  did  not  enter  the  small  inner  room, 
but  went  out  and  stood  upon  the  threshold, 
wrapped  in  the  icy  fog,  listening.  For  the  last 
hour  or  two,  Maurice  Le  Floch  had  been  tramp- 
ing from  one  of  the  neighbouring  farms  to  an- 
other, trying  to  find  work  for  the  winter.  His 
sheepskin    valise   was  lying    in   the   middle   of 

319 


320  DAVIDEEBIROT 

the  narrow  path,  now  overgrown  with  tall  grass 
never  mown.  He  was  likely  to  return,  at  any 
moment,  bringing  the  wished  for  news,  but  Phro- 
sine  was  expecting  another  visitor.  It  was  for 
this  latter  that  she  had  dressed  herself,  and  ar- 
ranged her  hair  with  extra  care,  before  leaving 
the  httle  inn  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village  where 
she  had  passed  the  night.  He  could  not  long 
delay,  for  had  she  not  written  two  days  before? 

"Monsieur  Maieul  Jacquet, 
"At  the  Slate-quarry  and  Town 

of  La  Foret,  near  Combree. 

"I  am  expecting  you,  dearest.  I  shall  be  at 
the  gate  of  our  house,  waiting  for  you.  I  wish 
at  least  to  bid  you  good-by,  for  j^ou  cannot  have 
forgotten  me." 

She  had  no  doubts  as  to  the  result.  She  had 
reckoned  that  on  leaving  the  railway  train  he 
would  take  the  tram  from  La  Pyramide,  and  a 
little  after  mid-day  would  appear  on  the  road 
through  the  orchards.  When  he  was  once  more 
with  her  who  would  know  how  to  hold  him,  they 
could  settle  down  together,  either  here  at  Ardesie 
or  at  La  Foret,  she  did  not  greatly  care. 

She  was  listening  intently;  it  was  the  noon- 
hour,  when  work  stops  in  all  the  factories  and  work- 
shops and  on  the  farms,  and  she  could  easily 
have  caught  the  sound  of  a  man's  step  descending 
the  slopes  of  Chateau-rouge,  toward  Jthe  fields  of 
blue  stone,  if  the  wind  had  not  gathered  in  its 
course  all  the  noises  of  the  town,  as  well  as  all 


DAVIDEE   BIROT  321 

the  wailing  and  creaking  sounds  of  branches  and 
gables  and  of  hedge-rows  pruned  close  to  the 
ground,  whose  twigs  were  sharpened  to  tiny- 
whistles.  All  their  life  together  in  that  house 
was  in  Phrosine's  eyes,  all  the  days  that  she  had 
Hved  there  with  Maieul,  except  those  when  a  great 
grief  had  made  her  weep,  for  she  did  not  choose 
to  recall  sorrow. 

And  shortly  after  noon,  a  tall  and  handsome 
young  man  turned  out  of  the  highway  leading  to 
the  town,  which  was  invisible  from  where  she 
stood,  into  the  road  which  she  had  been  watch- 
ing so  fixedly.  She  hastened  to  the  edge  of  the 
straggling,  grass-grown  orchard,  and  leaned  her 
arms  upon  the  gate.  The  passion  within  her 
had  made  her  face  fresh  and  young  again;  she 
felt  her  power,  since  Maieul  had  come  back  to 
her,  and  an  alluring  smile  played  roimd  her  lips. 

Far  below  in  the  \dllage,  the  young  assistant 
was  presiding  over  the  children's  play-hour,  little 
dreaming  that  Maieul  was  so  close  to  Phrosine. 

On  catching  sight  of  the  woman  lying  in  wait 
for  him,  Maieul  turned  pale,  and  slackened  his 
pace.  In  a  moment  of  combined  weakness  and 
over-confidence  in  himself,  he  had  obeyed,  Phro- 
sine's summons.  At  a  distance  it  had  not  greatly 
moved  him  and  he  had  merely  said  to  himself: 
"Certainly  I  will  go  and  say  good-by  to  her, 
I  cannot  do  less." 

Poor  fool,  who  fancied  that  the  past  is  ever 
dead!  Since  early  morning  he  had  been  jour- 
neying toward  this  dangerous  moment  and  this 
woman;  andall  the  way,  his  dread  of  her  had  been 
growing.     Now  that  he  saw  Phrosine  before  him, 


322  DAVIDEEBIROT 

on  this  veiy  spot,  to  which  he  had  returned  even- 
ing after  evening  for  months  as  a  husband  to 
his  wife,  he  was  seized  with  terror  at  the  sudden 
throbbing  of  his  heart.  His  throat  was  dry; 
Phrosine's  smile  called  him  with  a  terrible  unes- 
capable  spell.  She  did  not  speak  until  he  had 
approached  near  enough  to  read  her  eyes,  grown 
wide  and  bright  with  an  evil  charm,  then  she  said : 

"I  knew  you  would  come  to  me.  Come,  my 
great  one!    We  were  happy  once.     Come!" 

She  gazed  at  him  as  she  spoke,  so  sweetly,  so 
sweetly,  that  he  felt  his  heart  reel  within  his 
breast;  then  she  opened  the  gate  slowly,  so  that 
he  might  see  only  her  eyes,  and  hear  only  the 
words  which  should  hold  him  captive.  But 
when  the  gate  was  open  and  the  pathway  free, 
Maieul  looked  on  the  ground;  he  saw  the  tall 
grass  and  the  straggling  plum-trees  beneath 
which  little  Anna  had  lived  her  last  days;  he  saw 
before  him  the  child  whom  their  sin  had  driven 
from  that  house  and  who  had  died  of  grief  be- 
cause of  it.  Then  he,  who  had  been  so  weak  and 
well  nigh  lost,  felt  himself  sustained  by  a  new 
strength.  Davidee's  prayer  succoured  him,  and 
little  Anna's  sacrifice  came  to  his  aid.  He  began 
to  turn  aside  from  the  woman  and  the  house,  as 
he  said: 

"I  have  come  to  say  good-by  to  you,  Phrosine, 
for  now  all  that  is  over." 

"Already!  We  ought  not  to  part  so  quickly, 
you  who  came  from  so  far  and  I,  too !  Come,  my 
Maieul!"  She  hoped  that  he  would  look  her  in 
the  face  once  more,  but  he  turned  his  head  quite 
away. 


DAVIDEEBIROT  323 

"Phrosine,"  he  said,  "I  must  no  longer  be  as 
I  have  been." 

"Who  forbids  it?"  ^ 

"One  who  has  the  right." 

"Yes,  I  know  her." 

"You  have  known  her  well,  it  is  your  dead 
child!"  He  had  already  drawn  back  from  the 
hedge,  and  he  now  started  toward  Ardesie.  Phro- 
sine  ran  after  him,  crying  in  fury: 

"It  is  not  the  child,  it  is  that  other  woman! 
Ah,  the  wretch,  she  has  stolen  my  lover!"  But 
she  did  not  attempt  to  overtake  him ;  and  at  that 
moment  a  much  younger  man  emerged  from  the 
narrow  road  between  the  farms,  and  she  cried  out 
to  him:    "Maurice?    Have  you  found  nothing?" 

"Nothing!" 

"No  more  have  I!  Come  on!  pick  up  your 
traps,  we  will  go  further  afield!" 

In  the  school  play-ground,  Davidee  was  still 
superintending  the  recess.  The  children  were 
nearly  all  assembled,  and  one  of  them,  approach- 
ing her  shyly,  said:  "There  is  some  one  at  the 
door,  asking  for  you."  She  did  not  know  who 
might  be  asking  for  her,  poor  Davidee  Birot! 
But  as  there  was  one  memory  which  never  left  her, 
she  turned  very  white  on  opening  the  little  chest- 
nut-wood door.  Maieul  Jacquet  stood  with  un- 
covered head,  partly  hidden  behind  a  pillar,  clad 
in  his  Sunday  clothes.  He  was  so  deeply  moved, 
he  too,  that  no  words  came  to  his  lips,  and  he 
stood  silent  as  a  pilgrim  who  has  reached  the  city 
of  his  dreams.  "It  is  I,  Mademoiselle  Davidee," 
he  said,  at  last.  This  girl  had  no  smile  for  him, 
and  no  tempting  glances;  she  was  deadly  pale, 


324  DAVIDEE   BIROT 

because  her  fate  was  about  to  be  decided,  and  by 
herself. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  "I  had  long  given  up  expecting 
you." 

"I  could  not  come  back  before,  but  it. was  for 
you  that  I  was  working." 

"I  thank  you." 

"I  am  a  foreman  at  La  Foret.  They  will  give 
me  work  in  Ardesie  whenever  I  wish." 

He  understood  at  once  that  she  was  awaiting 
something  more. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "I  can  hve  in  Ar- 
desie now." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  a  wave  of  pity  for 
herself  swept  over  her,  as  over  one  whose  pain 
has  just  been  lightened. 

"Yes,"  he  added,  "now  I  can  hire  the  pavilion 
of  La  Gravelle  again,  only  I  must  have  your  per- 
mission." 

Seeing  that  the  girl  could  not  speak,  because 
of  the  grief  over  the  past  which  still  held  her:  "It 
would  be  more  than  my  happiness  if  you  consent, 
it  would  be  my  salvation."  And  he  added  below 
his  breath: 

"In  this  world  and  the  next." 

Davidee  raised  her  eyes  toward  the  bank  of 
fog  which  the  sun  was  at  last  about  to  scatter, 
and  answered:  "You  may  hire  the  pa\'ilion  of 
La  Gravelle,  Maieul  Jacquet."  And  at  that 
moment  the  school-bell  rang. 


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ing men  and  women  of  France.  .  .  .  Rene 
Bazin  makes  pictures  on  every  page  of  this 
story  that  ought  to  be  inspiration  for  a  thou- 
sand painters." 

— New  York  Freeman  s  Journal. 

"It  is  so  far  out  of  the  ordinary  run  of  books 
published  to-day  that  it  causes  a  distinct  sur- 
prise. Bazin  has  indeed  touched  the  heights 
of  human  emotion  and  the  depths  of  human 
sorrow.  On  every  page  are  the  unmistakable 
earmarks  of  greatness." 

— Louisville  Evening  Post.  ■ 

"We  shall  not  be  the  worse  for  such  a  book 
as  this.  A  novel  well  made  and  also  {mirabile 
dictu)  well  translated;  a  novel  instinct  with 
human  sympathy  and  withal  a  novel  of  ideas 
and  sentiment." — Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 


REDEMPTION 

(DE  TOUTE  SON  AME) 

$1.25 

"A  fascinating  story.  Simple  in  construction, 
commonplace  in  incident,  it  is  a  superb  delinea- 
tion of  the  glory  of  consecration  and  sacrifice 
exemplified  in  the  life  of  a  young  girl  of  the 
people." — Catholic  World. 

"There  is  a  subtle  descriptive  power,  imparting 
a  haunting  quality  which  makes  one  feel  in- 
stead of  see,  which,  together  with  his  delicate 
ability  to  unravel  the  skeins  of  simple  souls, 
goes  far  to  account  for  Rene  Bazin's  wide- 
spread popularity  in  France  to-day." 

— Review  and  Expositor. 

"The  work  is  remarkable  for  its  literary 
beauty  and  strength.  Once  read  it  will  never 
be  forgotten." — Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 


BOOKS      BY     RENE     BAZIN 


THE   NUN 

(L'ISOLEE) 
$1.00 

"  It  is  the  epic  of  the  persecuted  church,  terrible 
in  its  truth,  terrible  in  its  portent,  terrible  in  its 
indictment." — The  Monitor. 

"The  Nun  is  a  book  which  no  one  who  reads  it 
will  ever  forget." —  Westminster  Gazette. 

"This  work  eats  into  the  heart,  and  lives  in  the 
memory  as  do  but  few  books  from  modern 
authors." — London  Daily  Telegraph. 

"M.  Bazin  gives  some  beautiful  pictures  of 
life  in  a  convent,  of  the  order,  the  discipline, 
the  labors  and  the  sacrifice  of  the  gentle  women 
of  the  S'xst&rhood.''— Philadelphia  Record. 

"Told  simply  yet  with  such  power  that  one 
cannot  get  away  from  the  scenes  he  depicts  nor 
forget  the  portrait  he  draws." 

— Donahoes  Magazine. 


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